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THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 



She knelt down on the grass, which surrounded the two 
graves like a green wreath, and leaning on the marble crosses 
at the head of each, she prayed and sobbed a long time* 
(Page 190.) 



THE 


Village Steeple. 

cl/ 

a GUENOT. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 


THE LADY BLANCHE MURPHY. 


Or ( 

• ••• ’TV 

. i- O 


J ? A 


NEW-YORK AND CINCINNATI: 

BENZIOER BROTHERS, 


Printers to the Holy Apostolic See. 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by 
BENZIGER BROTHERS, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

I. Under the Poplars, .... 7 

II. Catherine, 23 

III. Cousin Jacotot, 36 

IV. The Voice from the Grave, . . 51 

V. An Adverse Influence, ... 62 

VI. The Parting, 74 

VII. Disappointment, 86 

VIII. The Road to Fortune, ... 98 

IX. Holidays, 107 

X. Temptation and Resistance, . .117 

XI. The Panic, 127 

XII. The Garret, 139 

XIII. The Hospital, 151 

XIV. A True Friend, 166 

XV. The Return, 182 



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THE 


VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


L 

Under the Poplars. 

The village clock at Vallombreux had just 
struck two, it was a lovely May day, and not a 
cloud flecked the dazzling sky. A slight breeze 
cooled the air, played with the leaflets on the 
trees, and wafted across the streets the scent of 
the hawthorn and alder bushes that grew along 
the village paths. The peasants in their holiday 
costume sauntered quietly by with a step almost 
lazy, and in which it was difficult to trace the 
usual briskness of every-day life, while many 
further indulged themselves by carrying their 
coats on their arms and baring their chests to the 
invigorating breeze. All bustle was stilled, every 
house wrapped in silence ; every noise of rural 
life, the song of the laborers, the neighing of 
horses, the crunch of heavy cart-wheels, was 
alike hushed on this, the day of rest. Vallom- 
breux still kept holy the Sabbath day ; and the 
law that imposes this duty was understood, fol- 


8 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


lowed, and beloved in all its integrity by the in- 
habitants of the pretty hamlet. 

Not far from the church stretched a meadow 
planted with poplar-trees, and crossed by a 
beaten path, on each side of which lay felled trees 
of great size. As they had not long been cut 
down, the sap which had already swelled the 
buds still seemed to ignore that all communica- 
tion with the soil had been abruptly cut off, and 
little green twigs were industriously cropping 
out all over the prostrate trunks. A group of 
four or five men, gossiping while they waited 
for the bell to summon them to afternoon service, 
had taken possession of the extemporized benches, 
and the conversation, to judge from the loud 
voices and trenchant tone of the speakers, was 
evidently a very animated one. Here and there, 
some strong expression denoted that the argu- 
ment was waxing hot ; yet the topic thus discuss- 
ed, was neither the good crops which the fine 
weather made likely, nor the weather itself, nor 
the affairs of the village, still less those of the 
outer world. There was but one newspaper 
ever seen at Vallombreux, and few people trou- 
bled themselves to read it. What could be the 
topic of conversation among our friends ? What 
was capable of exciting such absorbing interest? 

Well, it was this : Paris, the great French 
capital. The magical name of the great city 
worked like a spell on the rustic assembly, fired 
their imagination, and provoked eager and pas- 
sionate discussion. Each held his own opinion, 
and felt himself bound to champion it; but strange 
to say, none of the disputants knew Paris by per- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


9 


sonal experience. They based their arguments 
on hearsay and their own diverse modes of in- 
terpreting what they had heard : some praised 
Paris life, some ran down its pleasures and oc- 
cupations ; but each held distinctly his own opin- 
ion, and would hear of no compromise with that 
of his neighbor. 

Among the group we have described, stood 
an old man upward of sixty, but whose upright 
carriage, ease of motion, and litheness of limb 
spoke of remarkable vigor, notwithstanding 
his venerable head was covered with white 
hair. His still graceful figure matched his regu- 
lar features and kindly expression, while his 
sparkling eyes and ready smile revealed a noble 
mind and a frank, lovable nature. 

I tell you. Father Lanrey,’' said a neighbor, 
addressing him, that it is not a bad thing to 
thrust your nose out of your own village, just 
once in a while. You learn to be a man of the 
world, you catch the tone of polished society ; in 
a word, you enlarge your mind.’' 

The speaker was about forty, with strongly- 
marked features and a restless eye that told 
plainly enough of a discontented turn of mind, 
and despite his tall stature, he was somewhat 
misshapen. Anatole Didier was this worthy’s 
name. 

Didier, my friend,” said Lanrey, with a mis- 
chievous smile, ‘^you are yourself a standing 
proof that no one need travel far to become a 
master in fine language.” 

The little group burst out laughing, for Ana- 
tole’s foible for imitating city manners was pretty 


10 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


generally known. Piqued by this appropriate 
answer, but hardly venturing to show his mortifi- 
cation, he said coldly, 

I do not quite catch your meaning. Father 
Lanrey ; would you mind explaining it further?’’ 

I only tried to pay you a compliment, and 
am sorry if I failed,” answered the old man; my 
idea is, however, that fine speeches and free and 
easy manners do not make a gentleman, any more 
than the cowl alone can make one a monk.” 

No doubt, and I do not say that merely leav- 
ing your home is sufficient of itself to make you 
a man of the world ; but I do say that a stay in 
some cities— Paris, for instance — improves you 
wonderfully, and sharpens your mind consider- 
ably.” 

And why do you think so ?” 

Because it stands to reason that in a large 
place where so many books and newspapers are 
printed every day, you must learn much that we 
know nothing of in our obscure village. I fancy 
the very air must be burdened with knowledge 
and fine ideas, and that by merely breathing it 
you must needs grow wiser.” 

^‘Just so; just my opinion, Didier,” chimed 
in a little man leaning with crossed arms against 
a poplar-tree. 

This individual, whose name was Thdophile 
Lesprit, but who was better known under the 
nickname of Grenouillard, generally made it a 
point t6 echo Didier’s opinions, because he feared 
his sarcasms. He was in easy circumstances, but 
devoid of much intelligence, and had married a 
woman fairly his equal in this last particular. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


II 


His low, narrow, and retreating forehead, and 
pendent yellow hair, his angular features and 
small dull eyes gave a sufficient gauge of his intel- 
lectual capacity, as the contents of a box are pro- 
claimed by the label attached. When he had 
married, he had chosen for his new house a 
marshy bit of land which not even the summer 
sun could effectually keep dry, and this circum- 
stance it was which had suggested the nickname 
he bore.* Having thus indorsed Didier’s senti- 
ments, Grenouillard let loose his tongue and 
wagged it industriously in favor of the capital. 

“Who taught you the love of great cities?'' 
asked Lanrey after a while. 

“ Faith !" said the little man looking silly and 
scratching his head, “ I think it came of itself." 

“ Impossible," laughed Lanrey. 

“ Such things have been known to happen," 
gravely said Grenouillard ; “ and then I fancy 
Paris is different from any other great city." 

Lanrey laughed outright. 

“ An excellent reason, gossip," he answered, 
“ and one which saves you further explanation. 
Still, when you so stoutly maintain a serious pro- 
position, I advise you to seek further for sounder 
arguments to uphold it, for some people might 
not be satisfied with your explanation." 

“ You may say what you like," put in an old 
man of seventy, an indifferent workman, but an 
eminent boaster and somewhat flighty to boot, 
“ you will never persuade me that it is not plea- 
sant to live in Paris." 


The French for frog is Grenouzlle, 


12 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


^'And why, Baptist?'’ asked Lanrey ; I take 
it you have better ground for your argument 
than Grenouillard." 

I know what I am saying," answered the old 
man ; I speak from experience." 

Have you been to Paris, then ?" 

No, indeed, but a few month ago, you and 
I, and all the village, had a good proof of the 
advantages which the capital is able to afford its 
inhabitants." 

I don't recall the circumstance to which you 
allude." 

Did you not see Didier's cousin, when he 
came to Vallombreux ?" 

'' Yes, I remember him." 

That is a young fellow who left his country 
home some fifteen years ago, and settled in 
Paris." 

True enough ; he used to live at Bri^res be- 
fore that, a little place ten miles from here." 

Well, I suppose one must make money fast in 
Paris ; for Didier's cousin looked well, and dress- 
ed like a gentleman." 

A proof that a man can make his way in 
Paris," said Didier himself, ‘‘ is that Jacotot 
dresses more finely on a working day than we do 
on* a Sunday. I remember him well, the day he 
left Bri^res ; all he had on his back was not worth 
four sous. In fifteen years he has grown rich, 
married well, and become a gentleman. It makes 
my mouth water to hear him speak of the capital, 
its luxury, its pleasures, its ceaseless festivals! 
Paris is an earthly paradise, little work and end- 
less delights. ' If country folks were less besot- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


13 


ted/ so said my cousin one day, Hhey would 
leave their wretched huts and flock to the capital, 
the centre of civilization. A man who respects 
himself can only live decently in Paris ! ' '' 

'' No matter what Father Lanrey’s opinion 
may be,’' said Grenouillard, I still think 
as Didier does. How I should like to live in 
Paris, if I only had a little more book-learning ! 
At any rate, I should not be obliged to kill myself 
body and soul by working in all weathers, sun- 
shine or rain.” 

Gently, Grenouillard,” said a very young 
man who had hitherto been silent, you take it 
too much to heart.” 

How now? I have not said half I meant 
to say.” 

Still, it seems to me that you let slip at least 
one word too much.” 

Grenouillard ’s new antagonist was Lanrey’s 
youngest son. Joseph was hardly twenty, and 
had a prepossessing appearance, and an expres- 
sion of more than usual intelligence. Of a lov- 
able disposition and an affectionate nature, he 
was the pride and comfort of his father’s declin- 
ing years. Grenouillard was rather offended by 
the young man’s interference. 

Would you try to teach me, youngster?” he 
asked. When you have seen as many years 
pass over your head as I have, it will be time 
enough to preach ; till then, let men speak.” 

Do not get angry,” said Joseph Lanrey, I 
did not mean to offend you ; besides, you did not 
hear me out ; but at any rate, I maintain that you 
let fall one word too much just now.” 


14 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

The young man would fain have continued 
speaking, but forbore at a sign from his father. 
Grenouillard, however, was too much nettled to 
drop the matter, and with some heat again asked 
Joseph what he meant. I tell you, since you 
have begun, you must shake out your bag to 
the bottom. Don't try to evade my question. 
What was it I said that was too much?" 

‘‘You said that you were killing yourself, 
body and soul." 

“ I did, and I say it again. Where is the 
harm ?" 

“ Well, allow me to believe that it was a slip 
of the tongue." 

“ Why should it be, I should like to know ?" 

“ I think you might have mentioned the body 
without dragging in the soul." 

“ Why ? What does your remark tend to ? 
Please oblige me by explaining yourself." 

“ I do not see what your soul has got to do 
with your work. You certainly do not give 
your time to improving it, but rather act as if it 
did not exist. You can not deny it." 

“You are insulting, neighbor," shouted the 
little man ; “ and I shall ask your father to stop 
your prating tongue." 

Lanrey only smiled at Grenouillard's wrath 
and his son's sallies. 

“ I will be silent," said Joseph, “ for I should 
be very sorry to vex Monsieur Grenouillard." 

“ When you are as old as I am — " began 
Th6ophile. “ But, enough ! I know what I mean ; 
I have not eaten bread so many years for no- 
thing." 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


15 


He accompanied these words, which were 
habitual to him, with an emphatic gesture, which 
emphasized nothing save the vagueness of his 
ideas. Joseph Lanrey, bursting with merriment, 
could not resist the temptation to say a few 
words more, so, in a tone of comical entreaty, he 
asked his antagonist, 

Grenouillard, can you spare me a moment's 
attention?" 

Ten, if you like, providing you speak as 
becomes your years, and remember that mine 
number twice yours." 

“ I will remember any thing you like, Th6o- 
phile. You told us just now, by way of giving 
due weight to your argument, that you had not 
eaten bread so many years for nothing." 

‘‘ Well, what of that?" 

Nothing, except that it is written that man 
liveth not by'bread alone." 

He who said that," said Grenouillard, was 
much mistaken." 

Nay, He said truth ; for it was God Himself 
who said it. He taught us by that saying, that 
though bread nourishes the body, the soul, on 
the other hand, needs more spiritual food for its 
sustenance." 

Anatole Didier thought it his duty to counte- 
nance the young man, and thus silenced Grenou- 
illard ; for every time Didier emitted an opinion, 
the other indorsed it. On one point alone, were 
the two yet at variance ; Didier had never 
found the way to his admirer's money-bags. 
The little wretch was a miser, as every one well 
knew. Gold lay hidden somewhere in his 


1 6 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

marsh, his dung-hill, or his cellar. Didier, in 
his shifts — the natural consequences of his fool- 
hardiness and careless living — had often tried 
to borrow of Grenouillard, but the shrewd little 
man had either refused point-blank, or pretended 
not to understand his friend. He disliked lend- 
ing money, and did not care who knew it, the 
reasons he gave for this aversion being strangely 
simple and conclusive : it was not his nature, he 
said, and he would not lend it to his own son. 

Seeing that no one spoke again, Didier tried 
to complete his cousin’s panegyric, thus awk- 
wardly begun by Grenouillard. 

All the same,” he began, ‘‘ my cousin Jaco- 
tot has done well for himself. I seldom saw any 
one so much at home in fine clothes — eh, Gre- 
nouillard ?” 

I should tell a lie,” said the latter, '' if I said 

no.” 

What was this wonderful charm of your Pa- 
risian friend ?” asked Lanrey the elder. 

Do you seriously ask me that ? did you not 
see my cousin Jacotot?” 

I did, and even spoke to him, if you remem- 
ber.” 

Then, Father Lanrey, your question sur- 
prises me the more.” 

I must say that I noticed nothing very extra- 
ordinary about him.” 

‘‘Well, now! hark to that — you are joking 
with me ! Is it an every day sight in our village, 
to see a man dressed all in black, with a tall hat 
and shining shoes ? not to mention that the Pa- 
risian, as you mockingly style him, wore a magni- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


17 


ficent gold chain, to which hung, doubtless, an 
equally rich watch, and that he had a lot of 
bright jeweled things of which I hardly know 
the names/' 

'' I hardly think your cousin was so well- 
dressed as you believe/’ 

“ And I should be last to impose upon you,” 
angrily retorted Didier. 

I did not say you did,” answered Lanrey ; 
but I fear you are yourself mistaken.” 

No, indeed ; I am sure of what I say ; for I 
not only saw, but handled his things.” 

Handled what?” 

Every thing, clothes, jewels and all.” 

Still, I think you are mistaken.” 

Please explain yourself,” stiffly said Didier, 
with a glance of supercilious contempt. 

‘'That is what I was coming to. Well, how 
much do you think this famous costume cost ?” 

“ I know nothing about prices, and really 
could not tell.” 

“I know better,” said Lanrey; “you will be 
surprised to hear that your cousin Jacotot was 
more cheaply clad than any of us.” 

“ That is too much of a good thing !” cried 
Didier and Grenouillard in one breath ; “ we are 
not quite such fools as to swallow that.” 

“ Patience, and you will see my meaning. 
Jacotot’s fine frock-coat, which you so admired, 
came out of an old-clothes shop. You might 
have seen for yourselves, if you had looked a 
little closer, that that threadbare garment was 
never cut to fit your cousin’s figure. Coat, vest, 
trowsers, hat, and boots, cost about thirty francs 


i8 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


as a whole. So you see there was not much to 
boast of, nor much ground for hastily concluding 
that Jacotot is swimming in riches.” 

And the watch and long ^old chain, were 
they bought at a clothes-dealer's too ! Ah ! I have 
you there. Father Lanrey ; you can not get out of 
that.” 

I hope to do so,” said the old man. 

Well, speak on, then.” 

‘‘You speak of a watch? Are you sure it 
was there ? Did you see it ?” 

“Well, to tell the truth, I did not. Still, the 
chain that showed half across his vest, that was 
no sham.” 

“ That there was a chain, I will not deny ; but 
that it was a gold one, I venture to doubt. Nay, 
I would go so far as to affirm that it was brass. 
When I accidentally met your cousin, I examined 
him all over ; and my eyes, old as they may be, 
Avere sharp enough to make a quick estimate of 
the rich Parisian's chain and ‘ charms I would 
not have given three francs for the whole.” 

Anatole Didier looked confusedly at the 
ground, since he could not gainsay Lanrey, and 
yet would not show his vexation at the latter's 
judgment on Jacotot. “ One day,” resumed the 
old man, “ I was on the market-place at Bri^re's, 
and saw there, one of these would-be gentlemen 
like your cousin, just come from the capital, and 
displaying his airs and graces like a peacock, be- 
fore his old village chums. He was toying with a 
splendid chain, and affecting to hide our bourg, 
provincial accent, beneath a varnish of mincing 
city pronunciation, when some one, whether in fun 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


19 


or in good faith, I know not, asked him what time 
it was. ‘ My watch has stopped,’ glibly said the 
Parisian ; but hardly had he done speaking, when 
his neighbor suddenly tugged at the chain, and 
drew out ... a big bunch of keys. All is 
not gold that glitters, as saith the proverb, friend 
Didier, and the saying applies as well to the pleas- 
ures of a Parisian residence. May be it is fine and 
tempting, when seen from afar ; but my village 
common-sense tells me that the pure air of our 
fields, the easy, free life we lead, the peace we 
enjoy, are worth a thousand such pleasures as 
Paris can afford. And besides, he would truly be 
a madman who, possessing a few acres of good 
fruitful earth, and a healthy, comfortable (if sim- 
ple) home, would leave them to seek his fortune 
out yonder.” 

‘^You are prejudiced against Paris, Father 
Lanrey ; let u§ drop that subject. But can you 
tell me why so many people daily run to the 
great city to try their fortune ?” 

Tell me first why the sheep run to the pre- 
cipice where the wether who heads the flock 
fell over by accident, and I will answer your 
question. Don’t you know that danger and 
abysses have always mysterious attractions for 
man ?” 

Never mind,” said Grenouillard. Anatole 
Didier is right, and I will stand by him.” 

Could you not for once justify your opinions 
before throwing them at people’s heads?” asked 
Lanrey. 

‘‘ I’m sure I can’t tell,” said Grenouillard with 
imperturbable calmness; ^Hrue, I can not speak 


20 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


as well as some of you, who have the gift of the 
gab ; but what Anatole says seems clear as crystal 
to me.'' 

Monsieur Grenouillard will need to ‘ eat a 
good deal more bread ' before he can make sensi- 
ble men understand him," said Joseph Lanrey, in 
a comical voice, which provoked the laughter of 
the bystanders. 

Silence, youngster," angrily said Grenouil- 
lard ; I was not speaking to you. If I had a son 
like you — But enough. I know what I mean." 

If you had a son like me, what would you do, 
Thtophile?" said Joseph; ‘‘I am curious to 
know." 

Perhaps you would be afraid that his wit 
would set your pond on fire," suggested the elder 
Lanrey. 

You are laughing at me — for shame !" said 
Grenouillard. I have but two children. Gussy 
and Filly. Gussy is a quiet, silent boy, and Filly 
is like him, and holds her tongue." 

‘‘Yes, Gussy is a very quiet boy," said Jo- 
seph. 

“ You are right there," assented Grenouillard. 
“ You could not help it. Gussy seldom speaks 
his thoughts above his breath." 

“ And sees no further than his nose," said the 
playful youth. 

Grenouillard was furious and Avas about to 
answer, when the arrival of a few Vallombreux 
friends put a stop to the discussion. Didier did 
not regret the interruption ; he did not like to 
have his illusions concerning Paris and Jacotot so 
rudely dispelled. His cousin, who had conde- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 21 

scended to dine with him once, had filled his 
head full of nonsense, and since that day, the 
poor man had never left off thinking that he too 
might make his fortune in Paris. 

Anatole Didier was by no means a bad man ; 
he was honest, well-meaning, and a good Chris- 
tian, but unfortunately somewhat lazy, very self- 
sufficient, and rather too much inclined to believe 
in new Utopias. He was apt to envy any one 
above his own station, and thought any occu- 
pation better and more lucrative than his own. 
There was a good old priest at Vallombreux, the 
father and counselor of the whole parish, and 
whose kindness was repaid ten-fold by his people’s 
love and genuine respect. Having heard of 
Didier’s plans through Jane, the wife of the latter, 
he sincerely strove to make him see things as 
they were, to depict to him the miseries of life in 
Paris, the dangers that beset honesty, and the in- 
security of even the best positions. He gave him 
a forcible sketch of the numberless unhappy 
workmen there, with hollow cheeks and ragged 
clothes, wallowing in crime and wretchedness, 
true lepers of society, outcasts bearing the brand 
of an insidious disease which carries them prema- 
turely to the grave. Still Anatole Didier, too 
much taken up by the opposite descriptions, held 
up as the truth by Jacotot, failed to take heed and 
listen to the fatherly wisdom of the good pastor 
of Vallombreux. 

Monsieur le Cur^,'' he would say, I will 
prove the fallacy of your reasoning by coming 
home rich some day from the city you malign so 
often.” 


22 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


I wish it, but scarcely believe it,” said the 
good priest. 

Didier had married a worthy and pious 
woman, and God had given them many children, 
most of whom, now in heaven, watched over 
their parents’ welfare on earth, and shared this 
labor of love with the guardian angels of the once 
happy household. A son named Alexis and a 
daughter, Catherine, remained to them ; the 
first was eighteen, the latter fifteen ; and had it 
not been for Anatole’s dreams of greatness, they 
might have sat forever round a truly happy 
hearth. 


IL 

Catherine. 

We have been obliged to delineate in all their 
native roughness the traits of some of the actors 
who are to take part in our little drama : thus we 
caught and ticketed at one blow the various 
characteristics which their jokes as well as their 
quarrels revealed, and our readers will have been 
initiated into their circle without a long and 
tedious description. If these opening scenes are 
light and perhaps exaggerated in their pleasantry, 
we can but promise that the rest of the story will 
afford many instances of the reverse, which will 
go far toward counteracting the influence of 
rural and boisterous wit. 

Anatole Didier lived at one end of the village, 
in a house which his father had left him. It was 
built in a pretty situation, on a slight eminence 
that overlooked the rest of Vallombreux, and 
afforded a wide view over the country : a large 
courtyard protected its approach. Behind it 
stretched a field, an orchard, and a kitchen-gar- 
den ; then a little grove, separated from the field 
by a brook. The whole was inclosed by a haw- 
thorn hedge, skirting the modest Didier freehold 
with a girdle of green. The house itself was in 


24 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


nothing distinguishable from the other village 
dwellings ; it was roofed with red tiles and the 
walls were whitewashed. It was altogether a com- 
fortable-looking home, while the ornamental lines 
of brown bricks which ran along the gables and 
round the doors and windows gave it a natty, 
jaunty grace. The branches of the tall, over- 
hanging plum-trees festooned the roof with 
greenery, while a screen of trelliswork, covered 
with vines, ran along the street wall of the in- 
closure and shrouded the house from observa- 
tion. The whole was a pleasant retreat, full of 
healthy country scents, and the perfume of wild 
as well as garden plants to which the rich soil 
freely gave birth. 

Anatole Didier possessed a treasure infinitely 
greater than wealth, and one that made his house 
a home indeed ; that is, a good wife, full of all 
seemly Christian virtues, devoted to her husband 
and a notable housekeeper. They had been mar- 
ried twenty years, and the beginning of their wed- 
ded life had been marked with singular success, 
the evils had been quite outnumbered by the 
joys of their state, and their union had been both 
peaceful and prosperous. Didier had inherited a 
small freehold, fairly productive, and quite suf- 
ficient, with Jane's help, to feed and support the 
young family in comfort. Had he been less 
ambitious, Didier might have been the happiest 
man alive. His wife kept his house in apple-pie 
order, and thoroughly understood her duties as a 
wife and a mother. She had watched over her 
children, anxious to turn their minds toward 
God as soon as the earliest dawn of reason allow- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


25 


ed her to instill an idea or feeling into them ; she 
had trained them up to the love of virtue and the 
clear apprehension of good. Her watchfulness 
had not relaxed as they grew up to youth, and 
she was now beginning to reap the fruits of her 
labor. No taint of evil had come near their 
souls, which dwelt to all appearance in an 
atmosphere of childish innocence ; they lived in 
the fear of God, the observance of His law, and 
the fulfillment of their daily duties. 

His neighbors of Vallombreux envied Anatole 
Didier's quiet happiness, and even he himself be- 
lieved that the truest and purest joys of earth 
had made his house their chosen home. Without 
a wish to go beyond his own circle, he tasted and 
enjoyed his bliss in peace and never thought of 
quarreling with his lot in life. His face was 
radiant, his brow open ; he loved and respected 
the gentle being whom God had given him for a 
helpmate, and proudly watched the progress of 
his children. The fruits of his incessant toil in- 
sured him a certain degree of comfort, and the 
small returns of his little freehold amply supplied 
his modest wants ; he worked cheerfully and 
steadily, never troubling his head about raising 
his position, or getting out of his village ; the 
bread that was steeped in the sweat of his brow 
was sweet to him in those days, and he craved no 
more. When he needed rest and solace, he found 
it in contemplating his wife's and children's hap- 
piness, and in submitting to their eager solici- 
tude, ever on the watch to make up for his out- 
door fatigues, by the most delicate attentions 
within his own home. Thus he found himself 


26 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


strengthened and encouraged to begin anew, and 
in this way he had spent nearly twenty years 
since he and Jane had been married. 

At the time at which our story opens, Alexis 
Didier, a fine youth brought up in the best tradi- 
tions of virtue and sound sense, had already been 
three years at work, helping his father. His 
healthy constitution, further strengthened by the 
frugal regimen of a simple country life, and the 
pure air which he had breathed from his child- 
hood, naturally led him to be as good and pious 
as his mother ; his peaceful country tastes never 
suggested any thing beyond the quiet pleasures 
of Vallombreux, his birth-place, and as he fondly 
believed, the spot where his bones would in due 
time be laid to rest. His heart and fancy were 
content with the joys he knew, his home, his 
own ‘‘ vine and fig-tree,'' the woods with their 
mysterious murmurings, the blue sky above him, 
his friends in the village ; and these left him no 
time for feverish dreams or to frame illusory 
and fantastic pictures of a different life. His 
whole existence had been to him as an endless 
festival, whose graceful details no rude assault 
had ever disturbed. 

His sister Catherine had grown up under the 
same influence. Amiable and modest, she was 
the angel of the family hearth. She was beauti- 
ful, though she had not an idea of it, and her soft 
features were appropriately framed in Madonna 
braids of long fair hair. The innocence of child- 
hood, and the artless joy born of it, shone in her 
expression ; and as for her soul, it resembled a 
rich vase overflowing with sentiment and poeti- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


27 


cal feeling. She was passionately fond of her 
native village, and did not believe there was 
any thing in the world that could compare with 
it. True, she had been to the neighboring 
town, which, for a provincial one, was re- 
markably well built; but she loved Vallom- 
breux incomparably better — loved the houses 
nestled among islets of greenery, and set with all 
the jeweled wealth of bright summer flowers — 
loved the little plain church, which long ago had 
been built of the rough stone of the country, but 
which she looked upon as quite a marvel of 
architecture. When she knelt within its walls, 
she loved to think that God's eye was upon her, 
and that He would attend more graciously to 
her prayer, that He would grant more graces 
there than elsewhere, that the very walls breath- 
ed forth prayer and holy thoughts. Of course 
she did not reason, but she felt strongly. She 
liked to watch the thick grass of the church- 
yard, belting the church with green, and waving 
softly over the peaceful dead, whose long sleep 
the great wooden cross so lovingly protected, 
and not a day passed but that she came here to 
pray for the repose of the souls of the village 
dead. 

Catherine was so attached to her humble home 
that it would have needed to break her heart — 
and perhaps cut the thread of her life — in order 
to drag her from it. She delighted in the spring 
blossoms of the hawthorn hedges round Vallom- 
breux, and of the white and purple lilacs that 
surrounded the cottages ; she drank in the fresh 
and invigorating perfume of the air, at the sea- 


28 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


son when the grass begins to grow, and the sap 
to rise in the trees, when the meadows are full of 
daisies, of wild anemones, and of buttercups, and 
when, at the foot of every hedge, the sweet wood- 
violets are drenched in the pearly morning dew. 
Above all, she loved the quiet, innocent life of the 
hamlet, and was often heard to declare that she 
could not understand how any human being 
could voluntarily shut himself up in those stone 
prisons that cities are made of. Town life was 
too artificial for her, too much shackled by the 
forms of what, by common consent, we call po- 
liteness, social duties, bon-ton, 

‘‘ The cage may be as fine as it will,’^ she 
would say, in her artless way, but the bird is 
none the less a prisoner, and he must often long 
for the free air, the breath of the fields, the per- 
fume of the woods.’' 

Catherine was ardently attached to her own 
roof-tree, and of this preference she made no 
secret. She was, therefore, often praised for her 
discernment, her sound sense, and good judg- 
ment, which led her, young as she was, to see so 
clearly where lay true happiness. 

But a cloud had settled on Anatole Didier’s 
home ; within the last year, a nameless sadness 
had fallen on Jane and her daughter Catherine. 
There was less freedom in domestic intercourse ; 
Anatole often came home sullen and abstracted ; 
even his features seemed changed. He rarely 
took his share of the conversation, his thoughts 
were evidently far from those things that inter- 
ested his children, and formed the topics of their 
talk, and, lost amid fatal plans and dreams, he 


J THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 2g 

was leading in imagination a life far different 
from that of his native village. 

Peter Lanrey, the old man who so manfully 
held his own among the group which we noticed 
anon under the poplars, lived not far from 
’Didier’s house; their fields adjoined each other, 
and their dwellings were within a stone's throw. 
The two families had been from time immemo- 
rial on the very best terms, and kept up kindly 
and neighborly relations by ceaseless and unce- 
remonious visits. We have already said that 
Lanrey had a son about twenty, a boy full of ani- 
mal spirits, but possessed of remarkably good 
sense, a clear understanding, and an enlightened 
piety. If Catherine was a model among the 
maidens of Vallombreux, Joseph was equally so 
among the youths. As eager at his work and 
his duties, as at all lawful games and amusements, 
he gave the rein to his warm, frank nature, while 
always respecting the moral boundaries pointed 
out by the law of God. He certainly was igno- 
rant of the very meaning of the word sadness ; his 
spirits found vent at every moment, in the 
wildest burst of wit, in the most piquant sayings, 
which were sure to provoke a hearty laugh ; yet a 
sign from his father was enough to check his 
mirth in mid-career, and he had never been 
known to contradict the old man. To tell the 
truth, Lanrey took care not to abuse the exercise 
of his authority, and treated the youth quite as a 
friend and almost as an equal, appealing to his 
own good sense, and giving him advice instead 
of positive orders. ^Joseph's influence over his 
young companions was proportionately great ; 


30 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


his own excellent temper and strong common- 
sense, as well as his father’s easy circumstances, 
had contributed to make this influence secure. 
Old Lanrey had been prosperous in money mat- 
ters ; a careful husbandman, he added to his pos- 
sessions every year, and invariably paid ready 
money. Still, there was no pretension in his 
housekeeping arrangements, and he fed all his 
laborers daily at his own well-supplied table, be- 
sides paying them good wages, always at the 
right time. Every one in the village coveted a 
place among his men. His wife, who was just 
his own age, was actuated by the same spirit ; 
together they had brought up a family of five 
boys and two girls. Only two, Joseph and 
Georgie, were now at home. The elder ones had 
all married and settled in the village, where they 
strove to follow in their father’s footsteps, that 
they might reap his reward, and be blessed, as he 
had been, in their children and all their lawful 
undertakings. All his sons had inherited from 
Peter Lanrey an unflinching devotion to their 
birthplace, and a passionate love of quiet country 
life ; their only ambition was to bring up their 
children in the fear of the Lord, to train them to 
a strict performance of their duties, and instill 
into them a real love for the traditional calling of 
the family, that is, husbandry. 

The love of one’s native village was a second 
religion with old Lanrey, and instinctively led 
him to take dislike to any one who strayed far 
from the village-steeple. In his eyes, the steeple 
was to the village what his flag is to the soldier, 
namely, the symbol of his country and the repre- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


31 


sentative of his home. His charity in cases of 
want and distress was always to be relied upon ; 
the cry of the poor never sounded in his ears in 
vain, and he fully believed that he who giveth 
to the poor lendeth to the Lord.’’ In spite of 
the order and rigid economy which distinguished 
him and forbade his ever spending money for 
purely superfluous purposes, his purse was ever 
open to any one in need and poverty. 

Peter Lanrey was very fond of his neighbors, 
the Didier family, and fully appreciated the vir- 
tues which distinguished it ; but his manner had 
cooled toward Anatole during the last year, and 
he took care to show him how deeply he blamed 
him for his dreams of Paris and his new distaste 
for his own roof-tree. We have seen how plainly 
he spoke in the conversation recorded above ; the 
intercourse between the two men was at best but 
bitter-sweet. A closer tie than that of mere 
neighborly feeling was soon to bind the two 
families ; for a marriage between Joseph Lanrey 
and Catherine Didier was expected to take place 
in due time. The young people made no secret 
of their feelings, nothing was done clandestinely, 
and they need not have blushed for any word 
they ever spoke. They had grown up together 
as children, and circumstances had fostered a 
friendship which could not but be destined to be- 
come a warmer feeling, and though they saw less 
of each other now, never meeting save in pre- 
sence of their parents, and then speaking but little 
and that reservedly, still they had contrived to 
look what they could not say, and their hearts had 
no need of lip-language to draw them together. 


32 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


Georgie, Joseph’s sister, who was as good and 
as pretty as Catherine, had no objection to form 
an additional link between the two families : 
Alexis loved her and knew that she was fond oi 
him. Indeed, he only waited till he should have 
passed his twentieth birthday, and confidently 
hoped that old Lanrey would be glad to bestow 
upon him the hand of his beloved Georgie. A 
double marriage thus seemed certain, and the two 
young men lived patiently in hopes of it ; they 
might well indulge such happy fancies, so near 
did the realization of their dreams seem to be; 
but alas ! there was a trial yet to come. 

The very evening of the Sunday when the 
conversation under the poplars had taken place, 
Catherine came home and found her mother in 
tears. 

^‘What is the matter, dearest mother?” she 
asked at once, running to kiss her, her own heart 
beating with undefined fear. 

Poor child ! you will know it soon enough ; 
why should I tell you beforehand ?” 

Do tell me, mother,” earnestly pleaded the 
girl ; do not leave me in suspense.” 

I am afraid some misfortune is going to hap- 
pen to us,” said Jane, drying her eyes and kissing 
Catherine’s brow. 

What misfortune could threaten us ? What 
do we lack, mother dear ? God blesses us beyond 
every thing ; thanks to Him, we are all in good 
health, we live by our honest labor, and if we are 
pinched one day, we are all right again the next. 
We live in a comfortable house, have many 
comforts of which others are deprived, are among 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


33 


kind neighbors and friends ; what more do we 
want, or rather, what are we likely to lose 

Your father thinks differently of the advan- 
tages of Vallombrevix ; he does not like us to boast 
of the pleasures of our dear village home ; he 
hates it, and Avould like, of all things, to leave it.'' 

Can this be true?" cried Catherine, sorely 
dismayed. 

And worse than all, he has forbidden us to 
see the Lanreys." 

And what have they done to him ? they are 
all so fond of us." 

He has had a quarrel with Father Lanrey, 
to-day." 

Well, a little tiff will not break the friendship 
of years." 

“ But he says that our good neighbor publicly 
mocked him, and laughed at him." 

Do you know what he said to him ?" 

‘‘ It was about Paris. You know what Father 
Lanrey's opinion is about those who, as he says, 
leave the village-steeple to run after Fortune else- 
where. His tone was a little contemptuous, and 
hurt your father's feelings. That is the reason 
why he has forbidden us to see the Lanreys 
again." 

Catherine could not help crying at this unex- 
pected prohibition. Her heart was too gentle to 
understand how a sudden resentment could arise 
between men, and break in one moment a friend- 
ship of lon^ standing. Her father's decision was 
a painful one for her ; but the idea of opposing it 
never entered her mind for one instant : he had 
spoken ; that was enough for her. 


34 the village steeple. 

This is what had taken place just before 
Catherine came home. Anatole had come back 
from vespers in a very bad temper, and no sooner 
entered his house than, flinging his hat violently 
on the table, he began walking up and down the 
room, grumbling excitedly to himself. After a 
few minutes, he turned abruptly to Jane, who was 
watching him with anxious eyes. 

Wife,'* he said curtly, I forbid you and the 
children from ever having any thing to do with 
the Lanreys in future.'' 

‘‘ Why, dear, what is the matter ?" asked Jane 
in amazement. 

‘‘ The matter is, that I do not like people who 
persist in contradicting me. Old Lanrey speaks 
without the slightest consideration for my feel- 
ings, and does not care if he insults me or not." 

‘‘ Surely, he was wrong, if he really treated 
you so." 

He can not bear my cousin Jacotot, and I am 
sure the poor fellow never did him any harm." 

‘‘ Still, I think, dear, that if Lanrey does not 
like Jacotot, he must have some good reason for 
it. He is not a man*to be guided by caprice." 

‘‘ He only hates my cousin Jacotot because he 
lives in Paris and ‘ cuts a dash ' there, and wears 
fine clothes." 

Jane did not answer. She might have ex- 
plained that Lanrey disliked most of those who 
left their village home for Paris, for the very 
good reason that they generally went to add 
Paris vices to their previous village peccadilloes ; 
but she judged it prudent to refrain from this de- 
fense of Lanrey. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


3S 


After a pause, Didier spoke again. I can not 
conceive why Father Lanrey should hate my 
cousin so ; Jacotot is a shrewd man who knows 
how to make money. I wish I were as good at it 
as he is, that is all !'* 

Jane saw that her husband was not amenable 
to reason just then. Anatole Didier was infatua- 
ted with his cousin Jacotot, whose slightest words 
were gospel truth to him, and he did not choose 
to be roughly awakened from his dream. 


III. 

Cousin Jacotot. 

It will be as well to dwell at some length on 
this famous cousin Jacotot, by whom Anatole 
Didier swore so blindly and of whom he thought 
so highly. We will therefore trace this person- 
age's biography as far as we can ascertain it. 

Zebedee, or, as he was commonly called, Zeb 
Jacotot, was about the same age as Didier, and 
was born in the little country town of Bri^res, 
not far from Vallombreux. His father and Ana- 
tole's mother had been first-cousins, which ac- 
counted for the relationship claimed by the two 
men. After a few years' schooling, during which 
Zeb chiefly distinguished himself by his obstinacy, 
his laziness, and his detestable practical jokes on 
his school-fellows, he was apprenticed to a tin- 
smith. His master was patient enough to teach 
him his trade thoroughly, and the young work- 
man might, with reasonable application to his 
business, have easily earned his livelihood, but for 
the incapacity of his parents to understand the 
true basis of a good education. They were good, 
honest people, but obtuse, and the fruits of their 
bad training were now manifest. Zeb soon 
wearied of domestic pleasures, and had no sooner 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 37 

reached his twentieth year than he set out on his 
travels, under pretext of making the usual me- 
chanic’s tour of the work-shops of France. A 
good old proverb says that '' A rolling stone 
gathers no moss;” but if Zeb came back with an 
empty purse, he returned amply furnished with a 
stock of fine phrases, and an inordinate love of the 
tap-room and of noisy pleasure-parties. Hard 
work alone he could not reconcile himself to ; but 
his roving life taught him many a fine-sounding 
theory about the rights of labor, social reform, 
and the future millennium of equality, when all 
classes should be reduced to one common level. 
He quite believed in the realization of that dream 
of certain visionaries, who hold that a time will 
come when you need only stretch out your hand 
to get whatever you want, and when, so to speak, 
man will find his bread drop ready buttered from 
the clouds! Zeb Jacotot came home after four 
years’ apprenticeship, with his head full of these 
notions, and his heart embittered by a thousand 
anti-religious prejudices, and withal as bad a 
workman as ever. Anatole Didier saw him, and 
was fascinated by his assurance and volubility ; 
and mistook his insolent carriage for good-breed- 
ing, his frothy talk for knowledge, and his shabby- 
genteel clothes (bought for twenty francs at a 
second-hand dealer’s) for the ne-plus-ultra of city 
dandyism. 

Luckily for himself, Anatole Didier was young, 
and marrying soon after Jacotot’s reappearance, 
his impressions concerning his cousin soon faded 
away. Besides, Jacotot did not remain long in 
the country ; the vdlage was no proper field for 


38 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


his energies, he would say scornfully ; he felt 
bored to death in a little place like Bri^res, 
which was quite incapable of appreciating his 
talents ; he never could feel at home save in the 
capital. So he left for Paris, a fitter stage for one 
of his mettle, and for fifteen years he was heard 
of no more. At the date of his return, his pa- 
rents had just died in abject poverty, utterly 
neglected by their son, who, in all his life, had 
never contributed a farthing toward their sup- 
port. It was even said that he had never deigned 
to answer their loving letters or urgent appeals 
for help, and thus the unhappy couple tasted the 
bitter fruit of their own carelessness regarding 
their son’s early education. They had neglected 
to instill into his heart that divine element of reli- 
gious faith which not only keeps knowledge pure, 
but hallows every good feeling, and prevents the 
good seed from being choked by the thorns of 
worldly cares. 

Jacotot, hearing of his parents’ recent death, 
hastened back to Bri^res to sell off their wretched 
tenement and what little furniture it contained. 
Anatole happening to have gone to market that 
day, to sell a few bushels of wheat, came across 
Zeb in the neighborhood of the market-place. 
The latter stopped him. Well, Didier,” he said, 
have you forgotten all your friends and rela- 
tions ?” 

Excuse me, sir,” answered Anatole, open- 
ing wide his e)^es, I do not know you.” 

Can I have grown so good-looking that my 
own relations do not know me ? Have you for- 
gotten your old friend, Zebedee Jacotot ?” 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 39 

‘‘You don’t say so!” cried Didier in amaze- 
ment, you here, Cousin Jacotot I” 

“ Myself and no other,” said Zeb. 

“ Well, now ! but you have not been here 
long ?” 

“ Only since yesterday ; but how are you all 
in your little hole of a village ?” 

“ Pretty well, thank you ; life is the same all 
the year round with me. We live as best we 
can, work hard, and try to make the most of our 
little bargains. I hope you will come to see 
us ?” 

“ Of course I will,” answered Zeb. Forget- 
fulness is not the Parisian’s besetting sin, and 
they are certainly any thing but ill-natured ; so 
Zeb soon resumed, 

“ But now, I come to think of it, let us go and 
have a glass together, drink a bumper, as we say 
in town ? I know no better means of renewing 
old acquaintance.” 

Although Didier had promised his wife that 
he would be home early, he did not dare refuse 
Jacotot’s offer, and, indeed, was quite dazzled by 
his off-hand manner. Afraid of being set down 
by his cousin as a dull clown, he accepted with- 
out hazarding the slightest excuse. Zeb Jacotot 
had changed since his last departure from 
Brieres, and Anatole might have been forgiven 
for not knowing him again. The famous Parisian 
looked older than he was, his forehead was much 
wrinkled, and his bilious complexion, wearied 
look, and spare figure scarcely attested ease of 
circumstances or regular habits of life. His long 
hair fell in disorderly masses to his shoulders; 


40 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


but in this disorder there was nothing pictur- 
esque ; he looked outlandish indeed, but scarcely 
handsome, and the lower part of his face was 
covered with a thick, untrimmed beard. He 
wore the frock-coat which had so taken Didier's 
eye, black trowsers, and a black tie, with a white 
waistcoat, across which was displayed the gaudy 
watch-chain which Lanrey had judged so slight- 
ingly. He bore his head stiffly erect, as became 
a visitor from town ; but his shining hat was be- 
ginning to show rusty spots ; and dressed in this 
guise, which he believed to be that of a city ex- 
quisite, he paraded about, twisting a slender cane 
between his thumb and forefinger. We believe 
that we have sketched the Parisian accurately, 
and omitted none of the charms of his person ; it 
is hardly surprising, therefore, that Anatole Di- 
dier quite succumbed to his fascinations. Jacotot 
took him to an inn adjoining the market-place, 
and the resort chiefly of the most pretentious 
of the neighboring peasants. The two large 
rooms on the ground floor were full of people, 
eating and drinking at their ease, and, as is usual 
among country people, there was a deafening 
confusion of sounds arising from eager and hot 
discussions carried on at the top of the speakers' 
voices. 

Zebedee's majestic entrance into the place 
silenced the guests as if by magic. Most of the 
men instinctively touched their hats or removed 
them altogether, while Zeb, gratified at the de- 
cided impression which he had made, in return 
slightly touched the rim of his own with the 
same hand that held the cane, and walked slow- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


41 


ly through the crowd as a gentleman among 
his own dependents. 

‘‘ My cousin, Zeb Jacotot,'’ said Anatole in a 
whisper to several Vallombreux men who were 
seated together in the first room. They answer- 
ed by a somewhat ambiguous stare' of surprise. 
The two then sat down in a quiet corner, and 
Zeb ordered a bottle of wine and a good dinner. 
This was served in about half-an-hour, and 
the two cousins did full justice to the meal. 
Only a few words were spoken on either side ; 
and when it was over, Didier protested that he 
would pay his own share, adding that he would 
not have accepted the invitation had he thought 
it would be at his cousin's expense. 

‘‘ Hush," said Jacotot, ^Tt is my turn to-day, 
my boy. Do you suppose I have not the means 
to offer hospitality to a friend ?" And without 
more ado, he struck his glass to attract the host- 
ess’s attention ; then drawing a silk purse from 
his pocket, he let fall, as if by accident, three or 
four gold twenty-franc pieces. The landlady 
having obeyed his summons, he asked her how 
much was his bill ? 

Just ten francs, sir," she said. I never 
over-charge my customers." 

Very well, pay yourself," said Zeb, handing 
her a gold piece, and when she brought him back 
the change, he pushed a silver half-franc toward 
her, saying in a loud voice, so as to be heard all 
over the room, 

‘‘ For the waiter." 

Jacotot had gained his point : every eye was 
fixed upon him ; all marveled at his generosity. 


42 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


“ Then you do not bargain asked Didier in 
a whisper. 

Never ; it is vulgar to bargain ; we do not do 
it in town. The great city's rule is ‘ fast come, 
fast go.' " 

When Anatole Didier crossed the hall again 
in the wake of the magnificent Jacotot, whose gait 
was as that of a parish-beadle, he heard on all 
sides whispers to the following effect : 

What luck that rogue Didier has ! Paris 
relations like that to give him such capital din- 
ners !" 

Others, noticing Jacotot's more than free and 
easy style, remarked, There's a merry gallant 
for you. He was not born yesterday!" 

Didier proudly took his share of the compli- 
ments thus showered on his cousin ; but Zeb 
strutted by, apparently unconscious of the sensa- 
tion he was making. He accompanied Anatole 
part of the way home, and left him with the pro- 
mise of a speedy visit to his house. 

It was midnight before Didier reached home, 
where his wife and children had sat up, anxiously 
watching for him. He began excitedly to praise 
his cousin Jacotot and the good dinner he had 
given him that day. 

Jane did not know the Parisian, whom she had 
never even seen, and whose name she had only 
heard accidentally mentioned a few times. Ana- 
tole's account of him saddened her none the less 
for that, and she sighed as she noticed this proof 
of her husband's readiness to yield to the influence 
of a man of whom he could judge only from his 
fine clothes and smooth speeches. She said 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


43 


nothing at the time, thinking it more prudent to 
wait till his excitement should have abated a 
little, but the next day she tried gently to check 
this sudden friendship. The task, however, 
proved above her powers, and she saw that the 
harm was already done, and was beyond recall. 

To give the reader an opportunity of gauging 
at their real value Zebedee's unlimited boasts of 
his position, we will ask him to follow us in the 
sketch we will draw of Jacotot’s fifteen years' resi- 
dence in Paris. 

He had married the year of his arrival there, 
and lost his wife eight years later. She left him 
two children, who soon followed her to the grave. 
God surely took these innocent beings from the 
evil to come," when He decreed that they should 
leave earth so soon ; for they thus escaped both 
poverty and temptation, which otherwise might 
have resulted in the loss of their souls. Like 
most Paris workmen, Zeb spent his money as fast 
as he earned it, never laying by any thing, or 
taking any thought for the morrow. There was 
the Benefit-club to look to in old age, and Jacotot 
thought that it was the least society could do, after 
possessing his priceless person, to provide for his 
wants in the winter of life. This was his notion, 
and he never seemed to think that to gain the 
right of profiting by public charity, it is good to 
have some better claim to advance than that of a 
life spent in laziness and turbulence. As for sick- 
ness, there was the hospital to fly to ; so he lived 
upon a sixth floor (and sometimes higher), not 
that he might be nearer heaven, but simply be- 
cause he had not the resolution needed to curtail 


44 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


his daily bill at the wine-shops, in which so great 
part of his month's wages were spent. His tools 
and his rags lay heaped together in the dirty 
narrow room he called home. A pallet of straw, 
covered with old red flannel, was his bed ; as to 
his clothes, he needed but few ; for he had never 
worn, except on his wedding day, a suit such as 
Anatole Didier had so innocently admired. His 
whole wardrobe consisted of a blouse, a pair of 
corduroy trowsers, and two old flannel shirts : as 
to his furniture, he could boast of two rickety 
chairs, a worm-eaten table, and a broken bit of 
looking-glass glued (frameless) to the wall. Per- 
haps Zebedee wished to be the best thing about 
the apartment, which ambition in this case was 
easy enough to satisfy. 

We may be asked the question how it came 
about that Jacotot appeared in his native town in 
the resplendent costume which we have describ- 
ed. This is easily explained. Our friend, having 
heard of his parents' death, pompously announced 
to his fellow-workmen that he was about to go 
into the country for a few days on important 
family business, which statement he proved to a 
few chosen companions by showing them the let- 
ter which he had received, urging him to go 
home to settle the details of the heritage to which 
he had just succeeded. For a fortnight he work- 
ed tooth and nail, and for the first time in his life 
put by a small sum ; but as this .unusual fit of in- 
dustry did not bring in as much as he needed, he 
borrowed fifty francs (to be repaid on his ^‘proper- 
ty"), and thus equipped himself in the manner 
aforesaid. This is no exaggerated account, and 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


45 


the reader will now understand how it was that 
Zebedee Jacotot was able to make such a sensa- 
tion in the little town of Bri^res. 

As soon as he reached home, he hastened to 
sell off the cottage where he had been born and 
where his parents had died, and this without a 
single tear, without a sign of the least good feel- 
ing, without even a word to recall the many as- 
sociations with which in his eyes the place should 
have been full. But Jacotot cherished neither 
memories nor associations ; he lived in the pres- 
ent only, thinking it quite superfluous to trouble 
his head by looking back at the past, or prying 
into the future. His heart beat none the faster 
when he crossed the threshold of his old home ; 
the faces of the departed did not rise before his 
mental vision; he saw nothing in fact but the 
chance of making a little money. A few days 
were enough to close the bargain, which yielded 
him four or five hundred francs. He insisted upon 
being paid cash, and had no sooner received the 
money than he took a room at the inn and began 
to spend it as though desirous of letting the 
whole country-side share in his good fortune. 

These matters once settled, Jacotot remember- 
ed his promise to Didier, and set off for Vallom- 
breux one Sunday afternoon. Anatole, though 
taken by surprise, did his best to do honor to his 
guest; while Jane, with her sound and sharp sense, 
soon gauged the real value of the personage who 
had so thoroughly bewitched her husband. This 
good and sensible woman, seeing through Jaco- 
tot’s nature, received him coolly, though with 
perfect politeness ; still, she felt it due to herself 


46 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


to second her husband when he proposed that 
Jacotot should stay for dinner. The latter ac- 
cepted the invitation at once, and Anatole was 
proud of thus returning- the compliment which 
Jacotot had pressed upon him a week before at 
the inn at Brieres. 

When Alexis and Catherine came home from 
church, they were formally introduced to their 
new cousin, and the party sat down to dinner. 
The guest tried a few feeble witticisms at the ex- 
pense of religion, but soon found a stop put to 
this by Jane’s trenchant words : 

My children are not used to this kind of 
pleasantry,” she said gravely, and I should be 
obliged to you to let such topics alone. We have 
nothing to say against your being any thing you 
please ; but you must allow us the same freedom 
to keep to our religious principles. You may 
have your ideas, but we are just as much resolv- 
ed to stand by ours.” 

. This rebuke disconcerted Jacotot, who im- 
mediately changed his tone, but a certain un- 
easy feeling continued to prevail all dinner-time. 
When the meal was over, Zebedee was not slow 
to propose a little walk, and Didier was only too 
glad to accept, especially as he had noisily boast- 
ed of his cousin’s arrival in these parts, and his 
promise to make him a visit. As they left the 
house together, they met Father Lanrey, who, 
darting one brief, cutting, inquisitive look at the 
new-comer, knew at once of what clay he was 
made ; and that nothing escaped his scrutiny, has 
been sufficiently proved by the conversation un- 
der the poplars with which our tale opened. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


47 


After a few sage words of salutation, but quite 
destitute of compliment, the old man passed on, 
leaving the cousins disappointed and amazed. 
Didier could not understand how it was that any 
one could gaze unmoved on his city guest, while 
the latter was inwardly mortified at having miss- 
ed producing the effect he had reckoned upon. 
He was rewarded later on, when Anatole, un- 
mindful of his scornful neighbor’s looks, and still 
secretly proud of his cousin, took Jacotot con- 
spicuously and slowly down the main street of 
the village. Both were soon bursting with grati- 
fied vanity as they saw the children crowd to the 
doorsteps to look, open-mouthed, at the splendid 
Parisian ! Didier felt like a showman, and it was 
almost night before this ridiculous exhibition, 
which was a triumphal procession in the cousins’ 
eyes, closed for good. They went home and 
drank a parting glass together, after which Zebe- 
dee gallantly saluted Jane and her daughter, and 
got ready for his homeward journey. He asked 
Didier to accompany him a little way, which re- 
quest Anatole eagerly complied with, and as the 
shades of evening had now fallen upon the vil- 
lage, the Parisian for once consented to become 
himself again, since there were no admiring eyes 
to remind him of his dignity. He did not speak 
till they had got clear of the village; but then 
Jacotot turned to his cousin, and laying great 
stress on each word, said impressively, 

I am going back to town ; I am beginning to 
be bored to death here.” 

You are not the only one,” said Didier. 

When will you come and see me ?” asked 


48 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


Jacotot, unconcernedly tapping his cousin^s* 
shoulder with his light cane. 

'' Nevery I am afraid !” sighed the other ; we 
are pinned to the village by a thousand never- 
ending occupations, from year’s end to year’s end. 
Besides, I have no money to spend in pleasure- 
trips.” 

What ! you can not even afford a holiday 
once in your life ? You should not die without 
seeing Paris.” 

What can I do ? I must make a virtue of 
necessity.” 

‘‘ Well, I declare ! You country people ac- 
tually bury yourselves alive ; you never know or 
hear anything, never look further than the bottom 
of your own kitchen-gardens. That is not life, 
it is vegetating like a shrub, standing still like a 
tree wherever chance planted it.” 

You are right,” said Didier, I have often 
thought so myself.” 

Besides all this,” continued Jacotot, getting 
excited over his own eloquence, you toil and 
sweat in all weathers, rain or shine, frost or snow ; 
you never have a minute’s rest, you work like 
slaves or convicts. And what comes of it all ? 
Not much forsooth ! you are badly housed, badly 
fed, and not much thought of. Hurrah for Paris ! 
say I ; there you can pick up money by the sho- 
velful. You know that I had not a sou or a rag 
of my own, save the clothes on my back, when I 
left, and you have seen me again to-day. I am 
the last man in the world to brag, but you can 
judge from my way of dressing, of the difference 
between my position then and now.” 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


49 


I do envy city people,” said Didier ; ** they 
are the favorites of fortune. But how can I help 
it ? I was born in a village, and must make up 
my mind to live and die a peasant. I see no 
way out of it.” 

Bad logic, that!” cried Jacotot ; that's not 
the way a sensible man like you should see it. 
If all thought so, the world would turn fool. 
Don’t you know that we live in an age of pro- 
gress ?” 

Well, but what miracle can change the very 
nature of things, and transform me, an ignorant 
country fellow, who does not even know a trade, 
into a city gentleman ? How could it be ?” 

You forget that there are places, and good 
ones too, where a knowledge of some trade is not 
requisite. I will take it upon myself to see you 
all well provided for, and in a few years your for- 
tune will be made.” 

If I could believe you,” said Didier, quite 
dazzled, I should not hesitate one moment.” 

You may take my words for granted ; my 
promises are as good as fulfilled. But I have 
only spoken of material advantages, and have for- 
gotten to mention the delights and incompara- 
ble social advantages of a residence in the capi- 
tal where you meet so many cultivated people. 
How different from the country!” 

This long talk affected Didier in a most lively 
manner ; he told his cousin that he sincerely 
shared his opinions, and assured, him that he 
would seriously think over the means of follow- 
ing his advice. He had gone half-way to Brieres 
without noticing it, and hastily left his cousin, 


50 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


but not before he had thanked him warmly 
for his visit, the interest he had shown in his 
(Didier’s) affairs, and his offers of assistance, 
should the family decide to go to Paris. 


IV. 


The Voice from the Grave. 

Ever since the day when Zebedee Jacotot 
honored his cousin with a visit, the latter 
could do nothing but dwell on the fair prospects 
which the dexterous Parisian had so glibly de- 
scribed. His imagination was fired by visio- 
nary schemes, and he neglected his work, came 
to loathe a country life, and looked constantly 
forward to the day which should see him on his 
way to the capital. So full was he of his future 
plans that, spite of his resolve to say nothing 
about them until the last moment, he could not 
help talking of them to his wife. He was fond 
of dragging in the name of his farrious cousin, 
and was angry when he found how coolly Jane 
received these confidences. The crops failed 
that year, and Didier's affairs got into a bad 
way, so much so, that his home-comfort, which, 
by dint of hard work, might have been secured, 
dwindled visibly away, and want became a daily 
guest in his house. Jane noticed with alarm that 
letters from Paris came now and then for her 
husband, and she could scarcely be in doubt as to 
who was the writer. As he, however, said nothing 
about them, she at first dared make no remark ; 


52 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


but, one day, finding one of these mysterious 
letters on the floor, she picked it up, and did 
not scruple to read it. Of course, it confirmed 
her suspicions, and she saw at a glance what a 
great danger threatened her and her children. 
Jacotot still urged Anatole to leave the country, 
where life is mere vegetation, he said, and 
warml}^ encouraged him to come to Paris, add- 
ing a description of the comfortable, easy life of 
the capital, and assuring him that he was already 
on the look-out for suitable employment for him. 

The unhappy woman, seeing to what extent 
her husband was influenced to his ruin by Jaco- 
tot, made up her mind to have an explanation 
with Didier, and having chosen as favorable a 
moment as she could hope for, she resolutely 
broached the subject. 

What makes you so sad, dear?'' she began. 

Have you any hidden trouble? We used to be 
so happy once !" 

I am not sad," said Anatole, but I am 
thinking of our future. As to what you call our 
happiness in the past, you are mistaken, for there 
never was such a thing ; our life has always been 
a hard one, and we never had any luck. I want 
to leave the village." 

And do you think," urged Jane, that our 
children will like to leave Vallombreux, or that 
it will not rather break their hearts to be torn 
from their childhood's home and all the ties they 
love ?" 

Young people generally like change," cold- 
ly said her husband ; and whatever we do, will 
of course be done in their interests, and solely 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


S3 


for their good. Besides, children should be 
contented wherever their parents are.'’ 

But Alexis is almost a man, and you must 
know that he loves our neighbor’s daughter, 
Georgie Lanrey. It would be very hard for him 
to leave home under these circumstances. And, 
if I understand aright, Joseph Lanrey wants to 
marry our Catherine, and from some hints which 
his father has dropped in my hearing, I fancy he 
would be glad of this double marriage.” 

Don’t speak to me of the Lanreys !” angrily 
said Anatole. I can not abide their name!” 

This conversation having taken place several 
days after that under the poplars, Jane had quite 
forgotten her husband’s grievances against old 
Lanrey. She now saw, with dismay, that what 
she had naturally looked upon as a mere passing 
fit of ill-temper, was in reality a lasting estrange- 
ment. Nevertheless, she hazarded the following 
home-thrust : 

What have they done to you, dear, that you 
should hate them so ?” 

The Lanreys have evil tongues, wife. I had 
rather have Grenouillard’s son. Gussy, for my 
son-in-law; whatever else he does, he at least 
holds his tongue, and so can not say offensive 
things to a man,” 

‘‘ I hope you are not in earnest,” said Jane 
rebukingly. '' You know that Gussy has been 
brought up like a brute beast. God forgive me 
for speaking so of any of His creatures ; but it 
really is not my fault; I know no other word 
that will express the kind of being which Gre- 
nouillard and his wife have made of their son.” 


54 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


As Jane ceased speaking, some one entered 
the room ; it was Father Lanrey. 

Good morrow to you, friends !” he said 
cheerily. Jane welcomed him joyfully, for she 
was sincerely attached to her kind old neighbor ; 
Didier, on the contrary, scarcely noticed him. 
The very sight of him recalled to Anatole's mind 
his grievances against him, the grave admoni- 
tions addressed by the old man to himself, and 
the light tone which he had used as to Cousin Ja- 
cotot’s pretensions. Lanrej^ however, seemed to 
ignore Didier's surly behavior, and went to him 
at once, sat down beside him, and abruptly tak- 
ing his hand, said, 

I want to talk to you a little, neighbor ; pay 
attention to what I am going to say, for it is 
serious.'* 

The good man's face wore a grave but affec- 
tionate expression, and Anatole could not repress 
a gesture of interest. 

What is it. Father Lanrey ?" he asked. 

‘‘We have not been very good friends of late, 
have we ?" asked Lanrey. 

“ I don't deny it," said Anatole, hardly know- 
ing what his neighbor was driving at. 

“ I think it best to have a comfortable expla- 
nation that will put things on their former footing 
of good-fellowship," pursued Lanrey ; “ that is 
my object in coming to see you, Didier. Let us 
talk as friend to friend, and hide nothing from 
each other. What say you ?" 

“ By all means," said Anatole, though not cor- 
dially, “ I am quite agreeable." 

“ Then tell me first why you avoid me ? You 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


55 


have not come to my house as usual, and, 
though our friendship is not quite dead, it has 
cooled visibly.’' 

‘‘To tell the truth,” said Didier, “I will say 
that your manner displeases me ; that is my rea- 
son for avoiding you.” 

“ And what is the real cause of your feeling 
my manner to be unpleasant ?” asked Lanrey. 
“ Hide nothing from me. I promise you not to 
get angry ; I will just listen to your grievances 
and try, if I can, to explain them away.” 

“ Well, you always contradict me ; one would 
think you had made up your mind to do so on all 
occasions, and that you found pleasure in rating 
me. I can not be friends with you, if you go on 
like that.” 

“Well, I confess it, I have been rather hard 
upon you. I am very sorry that you should have 
taken any words of mine so much to heart. I 
really did not mean it.” 

“ I will believe you then. Indeed, the most 
forbearing of men is hardly proof against unceas- 
ing abuse.” 

“ Say nothing against my intentions, old 
friend,” said Lanrey; “they at least were good. 
I will tell you frankly, I have your interest so 
much at heart that I can not bear to see the road 
you are taking. You have said nothing definite, 
you have not given me your confidence ; but I 
see well enough what is brewing.” 

“ I do not understand you,” protested Didier, 
who hardly cared to discuss his plans with Lan- 
rey. 

“ Hear me out,” continued the latter ; “ ever 


56 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


since Zeb Jacotot's visit, you have thought of 
nothing but Paris. You evidently intend to 
settle there ; at least, such is the natural conse- 
quence of your present conduct.'" 

And supposing I did, what harm would that 
do you, pray ?’" 

No harm whatever. But no matter what 
you may think, Didier, I am your sincere friend ; 
indeed, my love for you and yours is almost a 
father's love. Any mishap to you would be a 
real grief to me. When your father died, he 
asked me to be a friend to you, and I promised 
him never to refuse you comfort and advice. My 
heart bleeds for you, when I see you about to 
undertake rash things." 

‘‘ What do you mean by rash things ?" 

Your leaving Vallombreux, abandoning your 
bit of land, and settling in Paris, all seem to me 
rash undertakings, which you may bitterly repent 
some day." 

Do you suppose I should change my way of 
living without due deliberation ?" 

‘‘I am afraid that you see things in a fairer 
light than they deserve — that, in short, you may 
be deceived. I believe that you will lose the sub- 
stance for the shadow." 

Oh ! you are mistaken. Father Lanrey. I 
shall not be imprudent." 

I still think I am right. I have the experi- 
’ence of years, which throws a strong light on 
what I already know of your plans. I would 
give a good deal to keep you amongst us." 

The kind old man's voice trembled with emo- 
tion, and his hand shook as it clasped Didier's. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


57 


Jane was crying silently, and praying God to 
soften her husband’s heart. Anatole hung his 
head and remained speechless ; he quite saw the 
force of Lanrey’s wise counsels, but could scarcely 
bring himself to unsay in public what he had so 
often and loudly protested were his fixed opin- 
ions. Lanrey, seeing him thus silenced, and be- 
lieving in the influence he was gradually exer- 
cising, began again in a persuasive tone, 

'' What do you lack here ? You have a good, 
pious wife, a son whom I love as I do my own, 
because he is steady, religious, and hard-working. 
As to your daughter, friend, she is the pride of 
the neighborhood, a tender blossom born of our 
secluded valley, and each day she grows in grace 
and in beauty, in our quiet, peaceful village at- 
mosphere. You have untold treasures in your 
own home ; and would you rashly go and fling 
them among the treacherous chances of Paris 
life, at the risk of losing or profaning them ? Your 
heart as a husband and a father will surely shrink 
from that?” 

You press me hard, Lanrey,” answered Ana- 
tole, I have long known that you think diffe- 
rently from my cousin Jacotot.” 

“ Indeed, I do ; I have no hesitation in saying 
so. Zeb Jacotot is simply imposing upon you ; 
he has filled your mind with miserable illusions, 
which, if you do not get rid of them, will entail 
the wretchedness of all your family.” 

‘‘ Still, Zeb, who started without a sou^ has 
grown rich in Paris.” 

Not as rich as you fancy. Do you know 
that he sold every stick of furniture left by his 


58 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


poor parents? He kept nothing of theirs, not 
the slightest trifle, even as a souvenir. However, 
he managed his affairs so well, that during the 
few weeks he spent in his native town, he had 
barely enough left to take him back to Paris.'' 

I heard nothing of that," said Anatole, rather 
taken aback. 

Well, I know it for a certainty ; if you need 
proof, others can confirm what I say." 

Didier seemed to understand him ; at least, his 
expression was softened. Lanrey thought it time 
to strike the last blow, while the iron was hot. 

I more than suspect your plans, and know 
that, carried away by Jacotot's illusive promises, 
you intend to leave Vallombreux and settle in 
Paris. Have you thought seriously about it ? I 
think not ; and what is more, I am sure that you 
will not get on in Paris, and that you may even 
fall into distress far more easily there than here." 

Still, I ought to take care of my family and 
do any thing I can to increase their comfort." 

‘^True, and therefore I will propose some- 
thing which I hope will set your mind at rest 
concerning your children's future. My son Jo- 
seph will have ten acres of good land for his own. 
He is a hard worker, and I have no doubt will get 
on as well as all his brothers and myself. He 
loves your daughter Catherine, as you probably 
know ; and if 3^ou like, and she consents, he shall 
marry her in a year." 

There was a moment's silence, and Didier 
looked thoughtful, though as yet he said nothing, 
while Jane's brow gradually cleared ; she felt 
comforted by the thought that Lanrey's argu- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


59 


merits were beginning to tell on her husband, and 
that after all they would remain at Vallombreux. 

** Your son Alexis,'' began the old man again, 
might marry Georgie, my youngest daughter, 
who will have the same portion as Joseph. Your 
children's future will thus be assured ; they will 
need none of your own possessions, and you and 
your wife will be able to live comfortably. If 
sickness or old age should threaten you with 
want, )^ou will not be left helpless ; for Alexis and 
Catherine are too affectionate not to relieve you 
at once. Do you see my meaning ?" 

It is worth thinking of. I do not say but 
that you may be right." 

Well, then, think it over and choose wisely. 
Why don't you ask the priest's advice ? He 
loves you all, and will give you sound counsel." 

I might try that, too," cautiously answered 
Anatole, whose pride urged him to hide the real 
impression which his neighbor's plain talk had 
produced on his mind. Alexis and Catherine 
came in as Lanrey ceased speaking ; their joy- 
ous expression quite faded at the sight of their 
elders' grave and preoccupied aspect. They 
bowed to Lanrey, who cordially acknowledged 
their salute, and rose to leave, shaking hands 
with Didier. 

Anatole went to the priest's house the same 
evening, and met, as usual, with the kindest wel- 
come. He staid a long time, and though we will 
not repeat the conversation that took place be- 
tween the parish priest and Didier, we may say 
that the latter left the house, almost resolved to 
give up his former plans. He began to see the 


6o 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE 


many dangers that might beset him and his fami- 
ly in Paris, and Jacotot’s influence was fast fading 
away from his mind. It was pitch-dark as he left 
the presbytery, and his road lay across the 
church-yard, which skirted both church and 
priest’s house. He had just reached the central 
cross, near which a grave had been recently dug, 
when he saw a slight blue flame hovering over 
the damp sod. Frightened out of his wits, he 
took to his heels and never stopped till he had 
got clear of the church-yard. This phenomenon, 
a purely natural one, not infrequent in low and 
marshy neighborhoods, seemed to Didier as a 
warning, a voice from the tomb, bidding him give 
up his plans. He came home pale and scared, 
his forehead bathed in a cold perspiration. He 
was not able to answer his wife’s anxious inqui- 
ries at once ; but when he had somewhat recov- 
ered himself, he said, 

I have settled to remain at Vallombreux; I 
think it is the will of God.” 

Jane flung her arms round his neck in her 
sudden joy, and Alexis and Catherine plainly 
showed their delight at this decision. These 
marks of affection restored Didier’s composure, 
and he began to ask himself, how he could have 
thought of grieving, perhaps of breaking, these 
kind and loving hearts, whose affection so amply 
made up for any momentary discomfort he might 
experience in his humble home. He resolved to 
watch over his truant imagination and not allow 
himself to be caught again by fine promises 
whose worth he had no means of testing. The 
recollection of what he had seen in the church- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 6 1 

yard, and of which he said nothing till the next 
day, no doubt had some share in his good resolu- 
tions. The evening was more pleasantly ; spent 
in Didier's house than it had ever been since 
Zebedee Jacotot's visit. Joy and a good under- 
standing came back to the divided household, 
and there was no reason to suppose that they 
would not be abiding guests at Anatole's hearth. 


V. 


An Adverse Influence. 

Anatole wrote the next day to Zeb Jacotot, 
telling him that he had determined not to go to 
Paris. He said that his wife and children did not 
fancy the change, and that he felt himself in duty 
bound to consult their preferences. He thanked 
his cousin for the trouble he had taken in his be- 
half, and said he was sorry not to be able to cor- 
respond better with his kind intentions. 

Didier’s pride certainly made this letter ra- 
ther a hard task ; for he knew how little Zebedee 
would care for the reasons he alleged. More- 
over, he feared the answer, but was relieved to 
find that none came, for JacotoPs sneers would 
have wounded him. When this was over, Ana- 
tole resumed his former duties and resolved 
never again interrupt them. His courage 
came back, and he worked hard, feeling as happy 
as he had done in years gone by ; his imagination, 
no longer fevered by silly dreams, now reveled as 
of yore in the beauties of nature as seen at Vallom- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


63 


breux ; he felt as if he had taken a new lease of life 
and was inhabiting a new world. The air seemed 
purer, the sun brighter, the sky bluer, the trees 
greener, the flowers sweeter ; the peace he felt 
stealing over his own heart cast its glamour over 
every thing and every one that surrounded him ; 
in his wife he saw new virtues, in his daughter 
unsuspected charms. He beheld his son with 
innocent pride, working by his side and giving 
promise of great muscular development and in- 
domitable energy ; and as to the Lanreys, his 
neighbors, with whom he had once more opened 
friendly communications, he only wondered how 
he could have cherished any grievance against 
such sterling friends. 

“ I really do not understand it at all, Jane,'’ he 
said to his wife one day ; I must have been blind 
or mad. Old Lanrey is the best of men, and his 
son, our future son-in-law, is a really clever and 
intelligent lad." 

You used to look at them through the mists 
of prejudice, dear, that is all," gently answered 
Jane. 

A few weeks passed by in peace and quiet, 
domestic joys bloomed again on the Didiers' 
hearth, and the past was easily forgotten, while 
Anatole worked hard, and never thought of Paris 
nor of Zebedee Jacotot. 

One evening, Grenouillard made his appear- 
ance in the cottage, accompanied by his son 
Gussy, of whom he had drawn such a flattering 
portrait to the company gathered a few weeks be- 
fore, under the poplars. Anatole and his family 
were just about to sit down to their evening 


64 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


meal, and the visitor was therefore somewhat in 
the way. 

Good evening to you all,'' said Grenouillard, 
touching his cap. Anatole and the rest bowed 
in return and asked him to be seated. Gussy 
had never stirred, and stood with his hands in his 
pockets, as if unconscious that any thing else was 
expected of him. Lesprit, noticing his boorish 
attitude, turned to him and said, 

‘‘Gussy, my boy, show your breeding, and 
salute the company properly." The youth ap- 
parently did not catch his father's meaning, 
whereupon the latter, somewhat mortified, spoke 
again, 

“ Say good day, boy. Either you have or 
have not been decently brought up ; show it 
then ; but enough, I know what I mean." 

Gussy, who had spoken never a word, sullenly 
touched his cap as he had seen his father do. 
Alexis had placed two chairs for the visitors and 
Gussy who was about eighteen, immediately 
seized on the first, bestrode it without regard to 
appearances, and leaning his arms on its back, 
turned his lowering glance slowly round the 
room. There was a moment’s silence. Didier 
waited to know what had brought Grenouillard, 
while the latter was fishing for an opportunity 
to broach the subject he had at heart. At last 
he made up his mind to begin. 

“ I was told that you were going to Paris." 

“ Who told you so ?" asked Didier, rather 
astonished. 

“ Old Pioneel. He said you would start very 
soon." 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 65 

‘‘ Old Pioneel would have done better if he 
had held his tongue/' peevishly said Anatole. 

“ Where’s the harm ? Was it not true ?” 

‘‘ No ; he was mistaken,” said Didier, wroth 
at having the question brought up once more. 

'‘You must be joking, Anatole,” said Grenou- 
illard. " You who said so many fine things about 
the capital, and seemed unable any longer to 
stand the quiet of the country ; you mean to say 
that you are going to draw back now and eat 
your own words ! I wonder at you.” 

" That is my business,” dryly said Didier. " I 
don’t choose to let other people meddle with my 
concerns.” 

" Do not get angry, Anatole ; I did not mean 
to vex you.” 

" Then why rip up old scores ? Why did you 
speak to me of Paris ?” 

" Because, you see, I wanted to talk about a 
certain plan I have in my mind.” 

" What is it? What do you mean ?” 

" I wanted to put Gussy under your charge.” 

" How ? what am I to do with your son ? I 
have enough of my own to look after, without 
taking the responsibility of other people’s fami- 
lies.” 

" Gussy is never in the way ; he has never 
been troublesome to any body,” said Grenouil- 
lard. 

"Well,” impatiently said Anatole, "what do 
you want.” 

" If you had gone to Paris, I meant to ask you 
to take Gussy with you, and find a place for him 
through your cousin’s influence.” 


66 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE* 


Grenouillard's proposition made Alexis smile ; 
even Didier’s expression grew less rigid. Seeing 
himself at least attended to, Lesprit went on 
more confidently, 

I am not like old Lanrey, who thinks nothing 
fine outside of his own village. Paris has always 
been my dream ; and if I was able to do it, as you 
are, I should start at once.'* 

Anatole, worried by his visitor's thrusts, 
thought to get rid of him by saying. 

If you like, I will write to my cousin Jaco- 
tot, to ask him to find your son a place. If he 
succeeds. Gussy can start at once." 

‘‘Just so," said Lesprit. 

“ I suppose the young fellow has no objection 
to leave Vallombreux?" asked Didier. 

“ Of course he has not," protested Grenouil- 
lard. “Am I right. Gussy?" 

“ I'm agreeable ; what do I care ?" said 
Gussy. 

“ Paris is a very different place from our little 
village," Jane good-naturedly explained ; “ work 
is harder there, and requires certain conditions 
which every one is not able to fulfill." 

“ What do I care ?" sullenly answered young 
Hopeful, “ I am fit for any thing." 

Lesprit felt that it was time for him to be gone, 
and Didier, glad to get rid of him, promised to 
write to his cousin about Gussy. He did so the 
following day. Poor Jane deeply regretted this 
renewal of a correspondence which she knew Jaco- 
tot would make the most of, to her husband's de- 
triment and her own sorrow. Grenouillard im- 
patiently asked for news several times a day, but 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 6/ 

Didier, tired of his importunity, once said to 
him, 

Do you suppose that letters go like light- 
ning? There is no time lost, you may depend 
upon it/' 

Excuse me, Anatole," answered Grenouil- 
lard. I am only asking you to save you the 
trouble of coming to my house to tell me." 

Oh ! do not think of that ; ^ patience is a vir- 
tue you know my cousin must have time to 
find a place that will suit your son." 

Any thing will suit him," cried Lesprit, 
‘‘ even a minister's post." 

‘‘You are modest, indeed," said Didier ; “a 
minister, forsooth ! Do you know what a minis- 
ter is ?" 

“ Well, old Colson calls his hodman so." 

“ If you had as much wit as you have money, 
Grenouillard, you would know that there are 
ministers and ministers, and that in Paris the peo- 
ple who bear this title are the very first in the 
land, those who control the government itself. 

I don't suppose you look quite so high as that 
for your son ?" 

“ No, indeed ; I was thinking of old Colson, 
the mason. But Gussy is a quiet boy, and never 
has any thing to say ; he will make his way any- 
where." 

Alexis, who had listened in silence, now asked 
if Gussy could not have made his way as well at 
home ? 

Grenouillard was disconcerted for a moment 
or so, but presently answered that Gussy wished 
to become a gentleman, and learn fine manners. 


68 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


Alexis and his father could not help smiling at 
this, which Lesprit perceiving, he bit his lip and 
answered stiffly. 

It is true, I tell you. Gussy is not so dull 
as he looks. He knows that Paris life will do 
him good ; it will polish him, enrich him, and stir 
him up. When he comes back, like Zebedee Jaco- 
tot, in a fine coat, and with fine phrases to match, 
no one will laugh at him then ; on the contrary, 
they will take off their hats and bow low to him, 
yourself the lowest, Anatole Didier, let me tell 
you.” 

Grenouillard was getting so excited that Di- 
dier and his son thought it best to. drop the 
subject and let him keep his belief as to Gussy 's 
future success in life. The other had the wit not 
to reopen the discussion, knowing well that it only 
bored his neighbors ; he was henceforward con- 
tent with slowly passing Didier's door several 
times a day, so as to make his presence known to 
Anatole. At last, the long-expected letter came, 
and Didier was not sorry that he happened to be 
alone when he received it. He Avas thus able to 
read it at his leisure, and it was a long one. He 
opened it Avith fear and trembling, afraid of the 
sneers it might contain ; but Jacotot began by 
referring to Gussy, Avho, he said, should be em- 
ployed as soon as he arrived in town, in a black- 
smith’s shop, as anvil-man. He was to have 
three francs a day, at first, with the expectation of 
higher wages if his employers were pleased with 
him. Passing to the subject which Anatole most 
feared, Jacotot went on to say how sorry he was 
to hear that his cousin had given up his plans 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


69 


and chosen to bury himself alive at Vallombreux. 
He said that many opportunities of good places 
and high wages had slipped by ; but still even 
now, “ you might be employed in my workshop, 
at twelve hundred francs a year, and your son 
could earn as much. Your wife and daughter 
could be sure to find work too.’' 

Anatole mused over these words a long time. 
All his old ideas came trooping back ; his prom- 
ises, his resolutions, Lanrey’s wise advice, the 
priest’s counsels, the church-yard vision, were all 
forgotten ; he thought no more of his wife and 
children’s despair at his former plans nor of 
their delight when he had changed his intentions. 
His old dreams once more got the upper hand, 
and it was by their light that he read the closing 
sentences of Jacotot’s letter. You see,” wrote his 
cousin, '' what a mistake you have made in refus- 
ing to try Paris ; you have virtually given up a 
comfortable livelihood, not to say a possible for- 
tune.” The letter contained four pages written 
in this style ; the words had an irresistible fas- 
cination for Didier, who yielded almost without 
opposition. The idea of Grenouillard’s son, 
who was the laughing-stock of the village, dis- 
tancing him in Paris, and growing rich there in- 
stead of him, was quite unbearable ; beside:; 
which, the dazzling offers again placed within his 
reach, took away his breath. He read and re- 
read the famous letter, pondered each word, and 
easily brought himself to believe that his true 
interests all lay in Paris. He rose with this idea 
fixed in his mind, and, forgetting that Gre- 
nouillard was impatiently waiting his answer. 


70 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


thought only of the best way of telling his wife 
and children that he had again changed his mind. 
They came in before he had decided on what to 
say ; so he determined to take the bull by the 
horns at once. 

Wife/’ he cried excitedly, '' I have got a let- 
ter from Paris.” 

Here he came to a full stop, not liking to say 
his cousin’s name outright ; but Jane, who knew 
too well from whom was the letter, anxiously 
asked, 

And what does it tell you ?” 

If Gussy likes to start, he can have a place 
at three francs a day.” 

Jane said nothing, but having no idea of the 
relative value of money and wages, and reckoning 
the ‘ day ’ by the village standard, she thought 
three francs a day a good deal for so awkward 
and ill-taught a boy as Gussy was. 

Is not that sufficiently lucrative ?” asked 
Didier, hoping that his wife would give him an 
opportunity of developing his own plans. 

Certainly, provided Grenouillard’s son 
suits his employers.” 

No fear of that,” said Didier ; there is noth- 
ing wanted, as Zeb says, but a pair of strong arms 
to wield the hammer. There is neither apprentice- 
ship nor intelligence required ; so Gussy is sure 
to succeed. So my cousin Jacotot says, and I 
think he is likely to know.” 

The way in which Jacotot’s name was pro- 
nounced was enough to let the poor wife know 
that the stranger had regained all his baneful 
influence over Anatole. The latter, unmindful of 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 7 1 

Jane's troubled looks and pointed silence, re- 
sumed, 

That is not all ; Zeb writes at length about 
my own circumstances.” 

What do you mean ?” asked Jane, wild 
with anxiety. 

He says we made a mistake in not going to 
Paris, as I had at first intended.” 

Never mind his fair speeches, dear,” said 
Jane deprecatingly ; I know he has a smooth 
tongue, but he would be the first to desert you if 
want came upon you.” 

And why should I not mind this letter of 
his ?” said her husband, with rising displeasure. 

My cousin gives me a proof that he does not 
speak at random ; for he says that if I leave 
Vallombreux within a fortnight, he will guarantee 
me twelve hundred francs a year to begin with. 
Alexis can earn as much, and you and Catherine 
will not be long without work. Don’t you see 
that that is quite a fortune ? We should be fools 
to let such an opportunity go by ; in a few years 
we can put by enough to provide for our chil- 
dren’s future and our own old age. We must 
not hesitate in view of such tangible results ; I 
am not now arguing vaguely, but am sure of 
what I say ; the letter is plain enough.” 

O dear !” said Jane, wringing her hands, 
will these unlucky ideas always stick to you ? 
I see but too clearly that you will give us no 
peace until we consent to go through a sad and 
dark experience.” 

'' Mother,” cried Alexis, deeply moved at 
Jane’s sorrow, why must we be torn from our 


^2 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

dear home, to cast our lot among strangers? 
We are happy here ; we will not leave/' 

H'm !" said Didier, his eyes blazing with 
anger, will is an ugly word ; do not dare to 
repeat it again. I am the only master here, I 
would have you know." 

Alexis did not answer, and his mother and 
sister stood still, with burning tears in their eyes. 

I tell you," said Anatole harshl}^, '' that I 
won’t stand being contradicted any more. Gussy 
shall not go alone." And with this, he left the 
house and went to Grenouillard. 

What news ?" cried the latter, as Gussy 
himself ran up. 

My cousin Jacotot," said Didier, Avrites to 
say that your son can have a good place imme- 
diately on his arrival in Paris, and will earn at 
first three francs a day. He will be engaged as 
anvil-man in a blacksmith’s forge." 

Will that suit you. Gussy ?’’ cried Grenou- 
illard, whose eyes sparkled with pleasure. 

What do I care ?’’ said the boor as usual. 

‘‘ You see, Didier," said Grenouillard proud- 
ly, that Gussy is a well brought-up lad ; he 
never contradicts me." 

Anatole was not much impressed with Gussy’s 
good-breeding, and did not answer the father’s 
boast. 

I am sorry," resumed Lesprit, that my 
bo)^ should not have the pleasure of traveling 
with you." 

He may, if he likes." 

How is that ? I thought you had fully de- 
termined to remain at home." 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


73 


I have changed my mind, and am pretty 
sure to leave within a fortnight.’' 

‘‘You rogue!” cried Grenouillard. “ I knew 
you were a sly fox, and did not really mean to 
give up your fine plans.” Then turning to his 
son, he said, 

“ Gussy, my boy, you shall go with the Didier 
family.” 

“ What do I care ?” said the youth, hi a sharp, 
shrill voice. 

“ Never mind him, Anatole,” said his father, 
“ he is delighted to go in your company.” 


VL 

The Parting. 

Anatole Didier, obstinately determined to 
try the experiment of Paris life, was deaf to all 
remonstrance. The parish priest, who had married 
him and christened his children, and his kind 
neighbor Lanrey, both tried in vain to turn him 
from his purpose and show him the risks he ran. 
He only persisted the more in having his own 
way, took offense at their remarks, and swore 
that he knew his own business best himself, and 
would go to Paris in spite of every ohe. 

He had written to Jacotot for further details, 
and had not long to wait for the answer. Zebe- 
dee reiterated his offers, and said that on his re- 
commendation, the master would kindly wait a 
fortnight ; he dwelt again on the advantages of 
the place in question, which he prophesied was 
to be the stepping-stone to fortune and success. 
He congratulated him warmly on his new reso- 
lution, and exhorted him to keep to it ; then hav- 
ing dangled before his eyes the attractions of 
wealth, he went on to boast of the pleasures of 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


75 


the capital, the change it made in one’s views 
and appreciation of men and things. He was 
careful 7iot to say that these changes of opinion 
are due to nothing less than the loss of all reli- 
gion and the corruption of morals. 

Didier was taken with the brilliant details 
and explanations of which these letters were full, 
and was never tired of reading them over to 
Jiimself. His preparations for a speedy removal 
quite engrossed his attention, and during the re- 
maining fortnight he sold his horse, which had 
been bred on the little farm, and was his constant 
companion in his field labors, then his two milch 
cows, and all the corn, straw, and fodder stored 
in his little barn. It was a cruel stroke for Jane and 
the children to see the place dismantled, in which 
they had spent so many happy years together, 
and where they had fondly hoped to live and die. 
Catherine, in whose charge the poultry-yard had 
long been, and whose rosy fingers had so often 
fed the pet fowls, cried as if her heart would 
break when she saw her favorites sold off. Alexis 
could not see the tools he handled so well, go 
into other hands without feeling a sort of blank 
creep over him, and any one would have thought, 
on looking in upon this family, whom we saw so 
joyous but a week ago, that some dire mishap 
had befallen them. 

Even Anatole Didier, spite of his insane de- 
sire to go to Paris, felt his heart melt within him 
when the day came, and he had to say farewell to 
his native village, his friends and relations, and 
the places associated with all his early joys. He 
faltered for a moment, and glanced sadly behind 


76 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


him, secretly wishing it were yet time to give 
up his plans ; but pride and ambition, and espe- 
cially the fear of being laughed at, carried the 
day, and he resolved to stifle his emotions. The 
day before their departure, Jane and her children 
went to pay a farewell visit to the good priest. 
He had known and loved them all their lives, 
and evinced the greatest sympathy with them in 
this hour of distress. Father Lanrey came next 
day to see them off. Though you would not 
take my advice,'' he said cordially to Didier, I 
am none the less your true friend. You were 
quite free to choose your own way." Anatole 
answered him with a confused look ; the sight of 
the old man recalled so much that it was not 
pleasant either to remember or to look forward to. 

If," resumed Lanrey, you do not find your 
expectations realized out yonder, remember that 
I am always your friend, and ready to help you 
at a pinch. No one would be happier to wel- 
come you back than I should." With these 
words, Lanrey held out his honest hand to Didier, 
who shook it cordially and murmured an indis- 
tinct acknowledgment. He was more moved 
than he chose to appear. Give us news of you, 
neighbor," added the old man, ‘‘ and God grant 
it may be good news." 

Anatole promised to write and keep his kind 
neighbor posted as to his affairs. Then Father 
Lanrey shook hands with Jane, Alexis, and 
Catherine. 

Courage, my dears," he said ; we shall meet 
again, I hope." Jane shook her head sadly, say- 
ing, in a voice choked with sobs, 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


77 


“Father Lanrey, I reckon on your kindness 
toward my children ; that thought will be a com- 
fort to me in this trial.’* 

“ Yes, Jane, you are right to depend upon me. 
I love both Alexis and Catherine, and shall never 
forget them, even while they are away from 
home.” 

“A thousand thanks,” said the poor woman, 
her tears falling fast. 

Gussy now made his appearance with his fa- 
ther. He carried a bundle containing a few 
coarse clothes, Grenouillard not having deemed 
it necessary to provide him with a good outfit. 

“ The young fellow will not need fine clothes,” 
he had said to his wife, who quite agreed with 
him; “ we must keep all we can now for his sister 
Filly ; as for him, here he is started on his way 
to fortune, let him make out as best he can.” 

Gussy’s farewells to his home were not senti- 
mental ; he shed no tear on leaving his mother 
and sister, he did not even kiss them ; but it must 
be said in justice to him that neither of the wo- 
men seemed to miss the embrace. He left home 
with utter indifference, which neither the expres- 
sion of his features nor the few sentences that 
fell from his lips in the least belied. What was 
the difference between Paris and Vallombreux to 
him ? As he said himself, he had to work like a 
horse at Vallombreux; there was no room to 
hope for rest under Grenouillard’s superintend- 
ence, which was indeed an iron yoke. He knew 
that, in Paris, he should have to work at the an- 
vil eleven or twelve hours a day ; but after all, 
why should he prefer Vallombreux to Paris? 


78 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


He possessed extraordinary strength, though 
he was not as yet full-grown. He was low in 
stature, but broad and strong-shouldered, with a 
mighty chest and muscular limbs. His expres- 
sionless face, and dull eyes hidden beneath 
bushy brows, gave notice that intellect did not 
go for much in his bulky and strongly-knitted 
person, and his hair, which was cut so as to re- 
semble a stubbly brush, grew low over his nar- 
row and retreating forehead. He certainly was 
not handsome, and the awkwardness of his gait 
added little to his additional charms ; in fact, he 
was but a graceless block of humanity, in which 
matter reigned triumphant, and had full scope 
for all its brutal instincts. 

The travelers were to start by rail from 
Brieres, a little town distant about a hundred and 
odd miles from Paris. It was in the year 1856. 
A carriage was hired to carry their luggage, 
while on the front-seat Jane and Catherine took 
their places. The three men walked leisurely 
after them. Their friends and gossips showered 
kind wishes after them all, but the tones were 
sad ; for Jane and her daughter were beloved 
throughout the village, and no one could help 
fearing that they would come to grief, through 
leaving it. The poor women sadly and silently 
answered these salutations by affectionate ges- 
tures, but could do no more. The journey be- 
tween Vallombreux and Brieres was as dull and 
gloomy as if it had been a funeral procession, ra- 
ther than the start on the road to fortune and 
success. When the party reached the last bend 
of the road from which the village church and 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


79 


its tall steeple were still visible, Jane, Alexis, 
Catherine, and even Didier himself, turned to- 
ward it with a loving and lingering salute ; 
tears and sobs then broke out ; but Gussy alone 
remained unmoved, not deigning to waste even a 
regret on his old home. 

The travelers, having started from Brieres at 
ten o'clock in the morning, reached Paris at four 
in the afternoon. Zebedee Jacotot, who had 
been advised two days beforehand, was in readi- 
ness to meet them ; but he did not wear the fine 
clothes which had distinguished him at Vallom- 
breux. Indeed, had it not been for his beard and 
the impudent swagger which Didier mistook for 
fashionable assurance, the latter would scarcely 
have known him again. The dandy of the black 
frock-coat now wore a plain blouse and corduroy 
trowsers, and even these garments were not in 
the best repair. His haggard look and almost 
ragged costume impressed the new-comers the 
reverse of agreeably, excepting perhaps Gussy, 
who never troubled himself about trifles. Zebe- 
dee, noticing the altered consideration in which 
he was now held, tried to neutralize it by ex- 
plaining his sorry costume. 

I made haste to come from the workshop," 
he said, and did not find time to dress." 

It was needless," said Anatole ; but where 
are you taking us ?" 

‘‘ I should have been glad to have entertained 
you all myself; but you see, our homes are rather 
straitened in Paris." 

This seemed strange to Didier, who had al- 
ready noticed the high houses, of at least five or 


8o 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


six stories, towering above his head, and whose 
infinite number bewildered his eye, and he could 
scarcely understand how any one could be strait- 
ened in such immense abodes. 

Where shall we go then Y' he asked in a dis- 
appointed tone of voice. ’ 

I am going to take you to a furnished apart- 
ment, where you pay so much a month, and are 
your own master. There is one near my own 
lodging, in the street where I live ; you will be 
pretty comfortable for a time, till you can look 
around you, and in the mean while you can seek 
some lodging to your own liking.'' 

Didier, accustomed to the open hospitality of 
his country home, where a good bed and an abun- 
dant board always awaited a friend, was sur- 
prised to find that Paris customs were less libe- 
ral than those of the country. The wretched 
man had not yet learned that a workman is but a 
bird of passage in large cities, and that the tent 
of the wandering Arab is less movable than are 
the city artisan’s humble household goods. The 
luggage having been heaped on a hand-truck, 
Anatole and his family and Gussy prepared to 
follow Zeb's guidance. He led them through 
dirty streets, blackened with the smoke of gri- 
my work-shops, and Jane and her children could 
not help comparing the dingy buildings and the 
darkened sky with the fresh, green-bowered cot- 
tages of Vallombreux and its sky of sapphire 
blue. It was a thousand times worse when they 
reached the furnished apartments, which in fu- 
ture were to be their home, and found three close 
rooms and a hole called a kitchen. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


8l 


You will have to pay sixty francs a month,” 
said Jacotot ; and it is not dear, let me tell you ; 
for I bargained with the landlady this morning 
about the price, and got her to knock off ten 
francs.” 

Notwithstanding all his cousin’s explanations, 
Didier did not seem much pleased. He saw that 
this apartment, which Zebedee thought so cheap, 
would swallow up three fifths of the wages which 
had been promised him ; so he suggested that a 
cheaper lodging might surely be found. 

Sixty francs a month is a round sum to pay 
when you only earn a hundred.” 

‘^True,” said Jacotot, ‘‘you can buy a little 
furniture and live very comfortably for three hun- 
dred francs a year!” 

Even this did not seem very encouraging to 
Anatole ; he thought it a hard thing to give a 
landlord a quarter of his earnings. He had fan- 
cied Paris was like his own village, where you 
can be comfortable for fifty francs a year. He 
found his ideal give way at every step, and things 
seemed very different from what he had ex- 
pected. He said nothing of this to Jacotot, hop- 
ing that his wages would be raised in time, and 
that while he could provide for daily wants, he 
could at the same time lay by money for the fu- 
ture. He therefore took up his abode in the 
apartment his cousin had engaged, and tried to 
feel at home in it, while Jane and her children 
settled down with heavy hearts and but slight 
anticipations of any thing better to come. 

Zebedee Jacotot then proposed to take charge 
of Gussy for the present. 


82 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


What do I care?’' said the youth, according 
to his usual formula. And he accepted Zeb’s 
proposal. In truth, he cared for nothing ; for the 
education he had received in his father’s house 
had been such as to blunt any sensitiveness or 
delicacy he might have had. His rough appren- 
ticeship at home had taught him to face all the 
trials of life without so much as feeling them. 
The next day, Jacotot took him to the forge, and 
Gussy at once set to work, striking the huge 
hammer on the anvil in such a way as to astonish 
his less robust companions. His master, after 
looking at him in amazement for a few minutes, 
thought himself bound to suggest a little more 
moderation and husbanding of his strength. 

What do I care ?” he said, as he laid down 
the heavy hammer for an instant and with his 
coarse shirt-sleeve wiped the perspiration off his 
face. He did indeed husband his strength as he 
was told ; but as those who saw his first trial freely 
said, he really was capable of doing the work of 
four ordinary workmen. After such proofs — we 
will not say of ability, for that was unnecessary 
in his trade, but — of animal strength. Gussy was 
sure never to want work, and always to earn as 
much money as he needed. He fairly deserved 
his three francs a day. 

Jacotot also took Anatole and his son to the 
master to whom he had recommended them. On 
their way thither, he explained to them that they 
would earn three francs a day as odd hands.” 

‘‘ Why,” said Anatole, disappointed, my 
wages will not be a hundred francs a month at 
that rate.” 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


83 


I beg your pardon, cousin,'’ said Jacotot, 
there are thirty days to each month, on an ave- 
rage.” 

Yes, but what has that to do with it ?” 

You will see that I have not deceived you. 
A month stands for thirty days, and thiity days 
at three francs each make ninety francs, i^ I know 
my multiplication-table.” 

Well, even so, that is not a hundred.” 

I have not done yet. You will get at least 
ten francs each month in presents and little gra- 
tuities.” 

“ But,” objected Alexis, “ you count thirty 
working days in each month ; now you have to 
leave out the Sundays.” 

Sundays !” cried Jacotot scornfully, Sun- 
days indeed ! A Paris workman knows no such 
thing. Mind neither of you mention that to your 
master ; he would laugh at you.” 

Anatole and his son were silent, and walked on 
sadly by Jacotot’s side. Anatole was bitterly dis- 
enchanted by all he had learnt during the last 
twenty-four hours ; he was really cast down, and 
thought remorsefully of his infatuation for Jacotot 
and his precipitate departure from Vallombreux. 

The moment they entered the work-shop 
where Jacotot was employed, Anatole and his 
son were deafened by the sounds of hammer and 
file, and half stifled by the black dust that filled 
the place. The sight of the workmen, begrimed 
by their trade, and for the most part debased by 
shameful vices, frightened the two villagers. The 
master gave them a rough reception, curtly in- 
formed them of what their duties would be, and 


84 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


set them to work at once. The father and son 
went home that night after ten o’clock, having 
worked fully fifteen hours. They complained of 
this to Jacotot, who answered with wonderful 
coolness, 

‘‘Well, what do you expect? you are only 
‘ odd hands.’ Neither law nor custom protect 
that class of workmen ; you depend entirely on 
the master.” 

It is unfortunately true that in most of the 
Paris workshops the “ odd hand” is considered 
as an inferior being, utterly at the master’s mercy. 
Even the workmen who complain so freely of the 
master’s or foreman’s tyranny, treat the unlucky 
“ odd hand” in a far more pitiless and inconside- 
rate manner. They never speak to him save 
when necessity compels them to do so ; they keep 
him out of all their associations or pastimes, and 
will not even sit down at the same table with him 
during meal-times. We can not tell whether it 
is true or not that our city population are more 
civilized than those of the country ; but we do not 
fear to be contradicted when we say that the feel- 
ing of Christian equality, that touching product 
of religion and the legacy of the Gospel to our 
modern society, is far better understood among 
the peasantry. The workman’s education has not 
yet reached that point. 

Anatole Didier bore his burden in silence ; he 
resolved to see the experiment through, and not 
to flinch before his harsh fate. 

As for Gussy, he behaved as if he had lived in 
Paris all his life. Sundays made no difference to 
him ; he was glad enough to work every day. 





THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 85 

and was not troubled with Didier’s religious 
scruples. As soon as he had got a little money 
together, he left Jacotot, whom he suspected of 
designs on his purse, and took up his abode in a 
separate den. 


VII. 

Disappointment. 

Two months sufficed to exhaust the slender 
fund brought by Didier from Vallombreux, and 
representing his former agricultural possessions. 
He and his son earned but little, when compared 
to their daily expenses, while his wife and daugh- 
ter could find no work to do. Flung on a sud- 
den into a large city, torn from their natural oc- 
cupations, their friendships and the associations 
amid which their lives had taken root, the two 
unhappy women suffered cruelly, their health 
gave way, and sorrow was soon stamped on their 
faces. Many things contributed to sadden their 
loving and pious hearts, but none was so hard to 
bear as the necessity of Anatole and Alexis work- 
ing on Sundays. 

The first Saturday after their arrival, Didier, 
himself shocked and embarrassed, scarcely knew 
how to tell his wife that he must work the next 
day, or be immediately discharged. The good 
woman gave him the opportunity he wanted. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


87 


I hope, dear,*’ she said after their evening 
meal was over, that we can all go to church 
together to-morrow morning ?” 

I don’t know about Alexis and myself,” said 
Didier dejectedly, ‘‘ I doubt if we can even go to 
early mass.” 

** What !” said Jane, would you give up your 
duty to God as soon as you come to Paris ? 
That would be wrong, and we should turn away 
from us the blessing of Heaven. You, who have 
never missed mass in your life, would trample on 
God’s law at the very time when we so sorely 
need God’s help !” 

I was my own master in those days,” said 
Didier ; now I am the reverse.” 

These words, sadly and bitterly spoken, cut 
Jane and the children to the heart : she began to 
suspect the truth. 

‘‘Can’t you get one day to yourself, dear?” 
she asked, “ since your master pays you by the 
day ?” 

“ No doubt I could, if I had no one but the 
master’s convenience to consult ; but his workmen 
will be there on Sunda3^s, and the ‘ odd hand ’ is 
f/tezr servant, and is bound to be there too. If 
they choose to work on Sundays, I can’t help 
giving in to this claim of theirs, unless I want to 
be discharged.” 

“ That is a real slavery,” sighed Jane. 

Didier was silent, his pale cheek and drawn 
features showed how troubled was his mind ; his 
own thought had been echoed by his wife’s 
speech. He was not only unhappy but angry ; 
he remembered the wise advice he had scorned. 


88 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


the fatal predictions now fulfilled but too well. 
Now that he was on the spot; he saw to what his 
cousin's promises amounted ; he had seen Jacotot 
at work, and had gauged his apparent ‘ wealth.' 
The dashing Parisian who had inflamed his sim- 
ple imagination was himself living from hand to 
mouth, and every day spending his earnings in 
advance. Still Anatole did not think of going 
home to Vallombreux, and Jane as yet dared not 
propose such a return, half hoping that her hus- 
band would at least turn to this only alterna- 
tive. 

The next day Anatole and his son went to a 
very early mass, and then to the workshop, where 
they spent the greater part of the day. Jane and 
Catherine attended the services of St. Ambrose's 
Church, their parish for the time being, but be- 
tween the services the day seemed tedious. 
They remembered what a happy day it had been 
at Vallombreux, where all work was hushed and 
the villagers spent their time in sauntering 
through the grassy paths in the fields and along 
the hedges on the borders of the dense woods. 

The father and son came back from the work- 
shop, thoroughly worn out. Anatole, after his 
meal, fell back in a heavy sleep on his arm-chair; 
and Alexis taking advantage of this, beckoned 
his mother into a closet-like room beyond the 
first apartment. He had had no opportunity of 
speaking to her in private since they had left 
Vallombreux. The poor boy longed for her 
sympathy and advice, and as soon as they were 
alone, he burst into tears. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 89 

“What is it, my darling?’' tenderly and 
anxiously asked Jane ; “ are you ill ?” 

“ No, my health is still good, spite of the hard 
work.” 

“ What is it — tell me then ? You can not get 
used to Paris, and feel home-sick, don’t you ?” 

“ That is one of my troubles, mother dear, but 
not the worst.” 

“ What is the worst then ? you frighten me, 
dear boy.” 

His mother’s solicitations and his own need 
of sympathy unsealed the fountain of his heart, 
and he told her of the horrible conversation he 
was forced to listen to in the work-shop, the con- 
tinual promptings to vice, loose living, almost to 
crime. He ingenuously described these unprin- 
cipled men, utterly without faith, thinking only of 
pleasure as the sole aim of life, hating work and 
only submitting to its necessity as a convict does 
to the lash of the keeper ; jealous of each other and 
treacherous among themselves, hating their mas- 
ter, who, sooth to say, is often no better than they 
are, and longing for the time when they can be 
masters in their turn. He spoke, too, of those 
shameless books, which, passing from one to the 
other, complete the work of moral destruction in 
the soul of the wretched workman. 

“ I feel,” said the poor young fellow, “that 
even in these few days, my soul has been polluted 
by these ignoble conversations, forced upon my 
hearing. It is like living in hell.” 

“ Have confidence in God, my son,” said Jane 
comfortingly. “ He who reads the heart of man 
as an open book, knows how pure you are. 


90 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


how you loathe evil, and wish to cling to His 
law ; He can not forsake you.” 

I hope He will watch over me, mother, and 
preserve me from sin. And yet I dread that in 
the long run, even the familiarity with vice may 
overcome me against my will, and claim its hor- 
rible influence over me.” 

There was a pause. Jane knew how true her 
son’s instincts were ; she knew that young hearts 
are not invincible, and that terrible shipwreck 
may be made of the soul, almost unconsciously, 
and as it were involuntarily. At last she asked, 

Could not your father stop these impure 
conversations ? His age and character ought to 
have some weight.” 

Alas ! if my father were to hazard the 
slightest censure on such talk, he would be hissed 
and hooted ; the place would soon be too hot to 
hold him, and he would have to leave.” 

“But,” persisted Jane, “could he not use Ja- 
cotot’s influence ?” 

“Jacotot is no better than the rest; he has 
even rebuked my father for keeping out of these 
shameless conversations. He told him that if he 
did not wish to be called a bigot, a fanatic, or at 
best a weak-minded fool, he must contribute his 
share of blasphemy and indecency to his com- 
panions’ talk.” 

“ And what did your father say ?” 

“ He told Jacotot roundly, that he would not 
take part in this blasphemous and disgusting 
talk.” 

Alexis did not add that he himself had been 
treated with the vilest scorn, for having once at- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


91 


tempted to stem the torrent of an obscene and 
impious dialogue, and that this brave action had 
drawn down upon him the most pitiless sneers 
and taunts. Jane trembled for her husband’s and 
her son’s souls amid these unsuspected dangers. 
In leaving home she had thought only of her 
cruel lot in being torn from all she loved and 
knew, and had feared no worse evil than poverty. 
She did not know that Paris was the chosen cen- 
tre of every vice, the hot-bed of all impiety, and 
that every class was more or less infected with 
its moral poison. Now that she stood actually 
face to face with physical distress, she found for 
the first time that poverty and hunger were not 
the worst evils she had to fear. She understood 
now what was the canker that had blighted whole 
generations in their prime. A century would not 
be enough to cleanse this plague-spot of Paris, if 
the generous blood of the provinces did not flow 
in perpetually to renew the exhausted vitality of 
the metropolis. 

Jane tried to hide her fears and comfort her 
son, whom she held long in a close and tearful em- 
brace. When the mother and son returned to the 
other room, Didier had just wakened up. Three 
months passed away ; Anatole and Alexis hardly 
earned enough to support their family, while 
Catherine and her mother, in spite of Jacotot’s 
promises, still found no work to do, and dragged 
on a miserable existence of perpetual anxiety, 
doubt, and fear. Didier grew morose and sullen, 
scarcely a word dropped from his lips, and he 
was always ill-tempered. One day he blurted out 
to his wife that Zebedee Jacotot had duped him. 


92 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


“We need not hope for higher wages, my son 
and I,'’ he said ; “ it seems that a long apprentice- 
ship is needed before we can work as journey- 
men.'' 

“ What do you purpose to do, then ?" asked 
Jane, hoping that her husband would himself 
think of Vallombreux, now that his own experi- 
ence had told him how vain were his prospects. 

“ I see nothing to be done but to make up our 
minds to our fate. It is very hard, and very far 
from what I was led to expect," said Didier. 

Jane might have retorted that he had been 
warned often enough to beware of Jacotot's plau- 
sible speeches ; but she refrained, fearing to 
wound him, and knowing how useless it was now 
to rip up old scores. 

“ Would it not be best to go home ?" she ask- 
ed ; “ our house is still furnished ; our fields are 
only let for a year, and we shall find all our old 
friends again ; fall back into our old groove, and 
be quiet and happy once more ? At any rate, we 
should be better off than we are here." 

“ It is impossible now," gloomily said Anatole. 
“ They would think less of me than of Grenouil- 
lard's son." 

“ I can not see," said Jane, “ how any one 
could compare you to your disadvantage with a 
person of Gussy 's sort." 

“ Because Gussy is lucky and I am not." 

“ How does he manage then ? he is so stupid 
and uneducated." 

“ If he has no mind to speak of, he has at least 
the strength of a bull. He works like a galley- 
slave, and is earning four francs a day now ; 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


93 


he keeps neither Sundays nor holidays. Why, 
he told me the other day that he already has a 
hundred and fifty francs in the savings-bank.” 

Jane, seeing that her husband still shrank from 
going home, did not press the subject, but secret-*- 
ly deplored his weakness, which, after leading him 
into such straits, now proved a bar to his getting 
out of them. 

Anatole had spoken truly when he said that 
Gussy was lucky. The youth, as we know, had 
begun by parting company with Jacotot, who 
evidently cherished the design of living on his 
young companion’s earnings. The latter, in 
whose mental system avarice stood instead of in- 
tellect, soon perceived this, and determined to 
balk his Paris friend. According to his father’s 
teaching, he lived on a franc a day, and never 
spent an unnecessary sou in dress or diversion. 
What need of good clothes in a workshop full of 
smoke and dust, and where he spent almost every 
hour of his life ? What was cleanliness to one 
who had been brought up almost on a dunghill ? 
His father had never taught him but one lesson, 
that is, to love money and scorn all else, and Gus- 
sy, who knew no better, was but putting into prac- 
tice the sole virtue that he had ever heard incul- 
cated in his childhood. He was happier now 
than he had ever been, and his manner of show- 
ing it was of a piece with the rest of his charac- 
ter. He had no reason to regret Vallombreux, 
the delights of the marsh, the rude elbowings and 
floggings he received from his parents, the end- 
less round of work to which he was condemned : 
there were no tender recollections in all that. 


94 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


He remembered that before he came to Paris, 
his savings all went into his father’s pockets, and 
that the hunch of brown bread which he denied 
himself never brought him in a single sou. The 
comparison between this and Paris, was all in fa- 
vor of the latter ; for here, at least, for every pri- 
vation he underwent, he saw a tangible result. 

Gussy had not written to his parents, for the 
very cogent reason that, never having been to 
school, he had not learnt to write. He had beg- 
ged Didier, when the latter wrote home on busi- 
ness, to let Grenouillard know that he was well 
and contented and never wanted work. He pru- 
dently added a recommendation to say nothing 
of his earnings, his savings, and his expecta- 
tions. 

My father is stingy and grasping,” he said ; 
he would think that I was rolling in money, and 
would want his share. Now, that would not be 
just,” argued the shrewd youth ; what I earn 
by the sweat of my brow is fairly my own.” 

Though Grenouillard was thus told nothing, 
he suspected that his son was not spending any 
thing unnecessarily, and was probably saving 
money. He wrote to ask Didier several times 
about what the young chap, as he called him, 
was earning ; but Anatole kept Gussy ’s counsel. 
At last, worried by these questions, which he 
knew proceeded not from fatherly solicitude, but 
from inordinate greed, he answered him in his 
own form of words. 

‘‘ Gussy,” he wrote, is a lad that never con- 
fides his secrets to others.” This was enough for 
Grenouillard. He knew his son’s nature and 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


95 


guessed his plans ; but having no means of cir- 
cumventing them, left the boy in peace and 
made no further inquiries. He went on working 
as if for a wager, and his wife and daughter help- 
ed him ; their one dominant idea was to heap up 
gold. Gussy was walking in his father’s foot- 
steps, and the latter had no right to complain. 
Zebedee Jacotot, finding Didier set against him, 
and well knowing the why and wherefore, began 
to tease him for what he called his ingratitude. 
He would egg on the other workmen to gibe 
and mock him, and persecute him in a thousand 
petty ways ; he even started all kinds of unplea- 
sant rumors about him, and sought in ever}^ way 
to make him odious to the denizens of the work- 
shop. 

That country bumpkin,” he would remark, 
** has an ill-natured soul ; he can not appreciate 
the trouble a man takes in his interests. Far 
from being grateful to me for having got him a 
place, he gives me nothing but black looks in re- 
turn.” 

These sayings, still further embittered by the 
galling comments of the men, came to Anatole’s 
hearing after a time, and Zebedee once or twice 
went so far as to sneer at him before alb the 
‘ hands,’ and publicly insult him. Didier’s heart 
was full, and one day his resentment burst forth. 

You have cruelly misled me,” he said ; you 
have played fast and loose with me in inducing 
me to come to Paris.” 

Jacotot tried to protest, but Didier cut him 
short, and pursued, 

You entice an honest father of a family from 


96 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


his country home, and tear him from all the as- 
sociations of his peaceful village life, to fling him 
into the unhealthy atmosphere of reeking work- 
shops, and force him to an employment which 
knows no rest and produces no gain, and you 
take all this as a matter of course ! If such an 
insupportable life was to enrich me, I might be 
able to stand it ; but I am worse off here than I 
ever was in the country. Here is my reward for 
trusting blindly to your fine promises/' 

‘^You lay the blame on me, then?" asked 
Jacotot. 

Of course I do. I blame you for having in- 
duced me to come to Paris, where my wife and 
daughter are breaking their hearts, where my son 
is wretched, and where I am myself reduced to a 
state of misery which even a slave would shudder 
at ! We are all miserable, and you are the cause 
of it." 

You are wrong, cousin, to blame me for 
what has happened. Gussy is better tempered ; 
he does not complain." 

‘‘ Gussy is not a father. He lived like a pig 
at home, and his position now, if any thing, is 
rather better than worse. What is it to him, as 
he says, to work without a moment's rest here or 
at Vallombreux? I will tell you, Zebedee, what 
I think about you ; not only I have no esteem for 
you, but I consider you as a man to be shunned. 
The less we see of you the better. Don't answer 
me, and don't try to tease me any more, or I 
might end by yielding to the temptation I have 
resisted till now, of giving you the drubbing you 
deserve." 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


97 


Jacotot held his tongue, though he was burst- 
'ing with rage ; but Didier’s determined look held 
him effectually in check. The two men parted 
without further explanation. 


VIIL 

The Road to Fortune. 

Although Anatole Didier, fearing the ridi- 
cule of his friends, had pooh-poohed the notion of 
a return to Vallombreux, he yet found his mind 
constantly recurring to the possibility of such a 
step. He was thoroughly disgusted with his 
work, with the company he was obliged to keep, 
and with Paris life in general. He thought re- 
morsefully of the peaceful days of his youth, the 
quiet happiness of his home, the associations of 
his ^native place. He dreamt of his fields and 
garden, his healthy out-door labors, the millions 
of stars that lighted up the night, and procured 
him a more beautiful illumination than all the gas- 
jets of Paris with their garish splendors and 
stifling odors. He had quite forgotten the griev- 
ances he had formerly discovered against his 
humble country life, and now cursed his own 
foolishness in having so little appreciated the 
simple but safe joys he had once enjoyed. He 
longed for his country home as much as he had 
ever longed for the pleasures of the capital, and 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


99 


thought sadly on the smile with which his wife 
used to greet him on his return from work, the 
innocent playfulness that enlivened his plain but 
abundant meals, the ruddy health that bloomed 
on his children’s cheeks. 

What a contrast he saw now ! The two poor 
women languished like frail blossoms rudely torn 
from their native soil ; they scarcely ever left their 
room, where they were confined like prisoners, 
and nursed their grief in the forced idleness to 
which fate condemned them. Their faces were 
never any thing but sad, and often showed traces 
of recent tears, while their health was giving 
way, and Jane’s cheeks grew hollow, and Cathe^ 
rine’s pale. They had been used to the open air, 
to sun and wind, and a bracing country life with 
its healthy occupations ; no wonder they could 
not do without it now. 

Alexis suffered no less from the abrupt change. 
He was no longer the active youth who so gayly 
mingled with his companions and forgot, in the 
innocent relaxation of Sunday, the toils of the 
foregoing week. Now he knew no rest, and his 
face was sodden like that of his fellow- workmen. 
His youth was almost blighted by a gnawing 
sorrow, and a drain on his strength which no 
constitution could long bear. 

The family seldom met but at night, but 
weariness, anxiety, and regret did their work so 
well in the heart of each one that even in this 
meeting there was no balm. Such rare moments, 
which of yore were so happily and fully occu- 
pied, were now spent for the most part in embar- 
rassing or wearied silence. 


lOO 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


Anatole and his son managed to leave the 
work-shop earlier one Sunday, in time to hear 
high mass at St. Ambrose’s. Didier fell on his 
knees, and seemed at first wrapt in deep thought, 
then a sigh escaped him, and as Alexis looked at 
him, he thought he saw a tear steal down his 
cheek. The youth was troubled, and feared that 
more evils must be in store for them than he was 
as yet aware of. His father’s evident sorrow 
moved him strangely, but the cause he could not 
guess. He hurried out of church, that he might 
have an opportunity of asking Didier, but was 
surprised to hear his father anticipate him and 
speak in a gentle and more contented tone of 
voice than usual. 

Alexis,” said he, I fancied myself at Val- 
lombreux just now. I thought we were back in 
our own village church, in our accustomed 
place.” 

He ceased speaking, and Alexis, not clearly 
understanding the purport of this remark, did not 
answer. Anatole walked more slowly, and re- 
sumed, 

It was so long since I had heard the church 
hymns, and seen the incense rise, and enjoyed a 
real Sunday, that I was strangely affected this 
morning. But something is wanting yet : our tall 
poplars with their leafy spires shooting up to- 
ward the blue sky, and still more, our old friends 
and gossips, our kindly and honest neighbors.” 

Again Didier paused, but after a few minutes 
he laid his hand on his son’s arm, and said, 

‘‘ I will confess it, Alexis ; I did wrong to 
come to Paris.” 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. lOI 

Alexis looked at his father, hardly knowing* 
what to think of this unsuspected avowal, which 
yet set him wild with joy ; for he dared to hope 
that Anatole would come to the legitimate con- 
clusion that it was best to go home again. But 
he was too tender-hearted not to try to excuse 
the very deed that had torn him and his mo- 
ther and sister from their beloved home ; so he 
answered, 

Father, we were led to expect better things, 
and might have hoped for much, had those fine 
promises been fulfilled.” 

No doubt,” said his father; but as things 
are now, I see only one thing to be done.” 

What is it, father ?” asked the youth 
anxiously. 

To leave Paris and go home.” 

Is it possible?” cried Alexis , beside himself 
with joy. Oh ! how happy this will make my 
mother and Catherine.” 

Then you shall tell them of it,” said the 
father. 

Nay, but why should you not be there to see 
their first burst of joy ?” 

I would rather have you tell them, my boy,” 
said Anatole, and his son fancied that his brow 
darkened. He guessed that wounded vanity 
was at the bottom of this request. Didier could 
not make up his mind to acknowledge his mis- 
take a second time. 

By all means, father,” hurriedly said Alexis. 

It shall be as you like.” 

The two men reached home a little before Jane 
and Catherine, who had gone to hear mass in a 


102 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


more distant church. On their return, they both 
noticed that Didier and Alexis seemed more 
cheerful than was their wont, and exchanged 
signs of some secret understanding, while their 
eyes sparkled with pleasure. They all sat down 
to dinner, and Jane cudgeled her brains in vain 
to discover the cause of her husband’s change of 
manner. Anatole kept his countenance or at 
least his secret, and baffled all his wife’s efforts 
at a guess. Though no longer sad, the table- 
talk dragged on vaguely through the meal, 
which by common consent was cut short enough. 
Alexis was longing to satisfy his mother’s and 
sister’s anxious curiosity, and Anatole, full of the 
brave resolve he had at last taken, seemed to 
have no appetite left. 

As soon as dinner was over, Didier made an 
excuse and left the house, determined to give his 
son an opportunity of imparting the news to his 
wife and daughter. Alexis was not slow to avail 
himself of it, and when the father returned, he 
found his family in the greatest glee imaginable. 
But, instead of unreservedly joining in this 
family rejoicing, he murmured discontentedly to 
himself, It was not thus I had hoped to go 
home to Vallombreux, empty-handed and unsuc- 
cessful ! I hoped to have made money and gone 
home to enjoy it for the rest of my life. It seems 
one must be a fool like Gussy to succeed here !” 

These bitter thoughts flooded his soul, and 
were hardly to be driven back by all Jane’s 
gentlest consolations. As to the instance of 
Gussy’s success, it was too true to be contradict- 
ed ; for, spite his dense stupidity, he earned money 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


103 


and put plenty by in the savings-bank, though 
he hid his gains from his father, that he might 
enjoy them without annoying insinuations. Gre- 
nouillard, however, penetrated the mystery — 
how we can not tell — and moved heaven and 
earth to force his son to send him his savings : it 
Avas all in vain, and Gussy held on to his gold 
like grim death. Forced to desist at last, Lesprit 
began to boast of his son's success and shrewd- 
ness, and to repeat, to any one who would listen 
to him, that Gussy was making his fortune and 
was delighted with Paris. 

We have already said that Gussy 's delights 
were not communicative ; he hugged his money 
in secret, and confided his affairs to no one ; still, 
some new change had passed over his nature. 
As his nest-egg grew, so grew his discretion ; he 
listened eagerly to what he heard around him, 
and picked up information as to the best way of 
making money increase at a judicious rate of 
interest. It is needless to say that he had quite 
broken with Zebedee Jacotot, and indeed the 
latter judged it prudent to refrain from any 
encounter with the young man, who, if no adept 
at fair speeches, would not have hesitated to sup- 
port his arguments with his fists. It is true that 
hitherto Gussy 's muscular strength had been 
exercised on nothing more susceptible than the 
work-shop anvil ; but it was easy to see that his 
hand itched to show what it could do on the per- 
son of some ill-fated comrade. This Zebedee 
had carefully noted, and therefore abstained from 
coming within the range of the young Hercules' 
displeasure. The blows that Gussy struck from 


104 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


morning till night on the great anvil, struck no 
less tespect into the hearts of his fellow-workmen, 
and of Zeb as much as any of them, votary as he 
was of the cultus of animal strength. 

Anatole continued his arrangements for a 
speedy departure ; but when Sunday came round 
again, he was as sullen as before, and staid out 
the greater part of the day. When he came 
home that night, tired and ill-tempered, no one 
dared ask him any questions, and he volunteered 
no remark till the end of supper, when, turning 
to his son, he said peremptorily. 

You must go alone to the work-shop to-mor- 
row, Alexis. I have business in the town, and 
shall not be able to go with you. You must tell 
the master to excuse me for one day.’' 

The young man acquiesced, and his father was 
about to speak again, but checking himself, 
he left his family in the dark as to the reason of 
this change. His wife and children, . anxious 
enough already, could not guess what was the 
matter, and the apparent mystery in which he 
shrouded his doings did not tend to lighten their 
solicitude. Anatole’s serious expression and ab- 
sent manner led them to suspect some new 
change in his affairs, and they began to dread that 
he would recall his former plan of leaving Paris, 
and disappoint them of the great happiness of 
which they had considered themselves almost 
sure. 

He neglected the work-shop all the next week, 
and on Saturday, told his wife that he had taken 
a small work-shop of his own on the ground-floor 
of the house they inhabited. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


105 


“ What do you want with it, dear she asked ; 
we are almost ready to start, and it is not wise 
to burden ourselves with superfluous expenses 
when we can hardly pay the rent of even these 
few rooms/’ 

Listen to me,” said Anatole ; '' it is time I 
should tell you what I have done. I accidentally 
came across a cameo-setter a week ago, and he 
told me that a cameo-cutter’s trade was not hard 
to learn, and it was very lucrative. He explained 
it all to me and advised me to try it. I saw and 
examined every thing carefully, and found that it 
was likely to prove a mine of wealth, so I learnt 
the business last week, and I know all about it 
now. I have got the necessary tools, and shall 
begin on Monday. I have work promised me for 
at least one month, and it will be well paid.” 

Alexis and his mother and sister listened de- 
jectedly to these words, former experience having 
lessened their confidence in Didier’s undertak- 
ings. Jane hazarded a few objections to the plan ; 
but her husband cut her short by telling her that 
the tools were bought, the work-shop hired, the 
undertaking begun, and the venture fairly decid- 
ed upon. 

Where did you get money enough for all 
these expenses ?” asked the poor woman. 

I used what we earned the week before last ; 
I can get credit for the rest.” 

He forbore to say that Gussy had lent him 
two hundred francs. The shrewd youth had be- 
come an accomplished money-lender, and drove 
a hard bargain with his poor townsman ; he con- 
sented to let him have the money at ten per cent 


I06 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

interest. Of course Didier intended to pay him 
back in a very short time, and said so to his 
young creditor ; but the latter stoically anwered, 
according to his usual formula, 

'' What do I care 7 ' 

He was right there ; for what need he have 
cared, whether Anatole kept the money a long 
or a short time, since the investment was sure 
and fast ? 



/ 


IX. 


Holidays, 


The requisite tools arrived on Monday, as 
Didier had said, and the work-shop was put in 
order. Alexis at least felt some comfort in no 
longer being forced to work among his former 
companions-, and in helping his father in his new, 
quiet occupation. A few days were enough to 
let him into the secrets of the business, which 
were simple and easy to learn, Anatole had not 
been mistaken ; work was plentiful, but it remain- 
ed to be seen whether it was proportionately 
well paid. A long and anxious week slipped 
by, while the two unfortunate women grieved 
over their disappointment. Alexis's work pre- 
vented him from dwelling much on his former 
dreams of happiness ; but he could not look upon 
his mother or sister, without feeling his heart 
ready to break. Didier spoke little, but his confi- 
dent manner seemed to say, I am sure of what I 
am about, and you will soon congratulate me on 
the good results of this venture." He certainly 
worked hard, though such eagerness could not 
have been long sustained without causing his 
health to break down under the burden of unac- 
customed labor. He went on Saturday, to take 






THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


I08 

his employer the cameos which he had cut dur- 
ing the week. The reader will no doubt under- 
stand that this kind of work was very fashionable 
at the time, and that these shells, carved in imita- 
tion of jewelry, were much sought after. Didier 
took his son with him, hoping to dazzle him 
by the sum paid for the week's work, and to 
let him see for himself how profitable it could be 
made. The merchant who had ordered this first 
lot was pleased with the cutting, and paid a 
round price for it. Alexis was surprised, and 
found that his father's calculations, which he 
had secretly thought must be much exaggerated, 
had been rather below than above the mark. 
Anatole narrowly watched his son, and noticed 
this favorable impression made upon his mind. 
As they were going home, he said, 

‘‘We shall be beyond want very shortly, and 
shall earn a moderate competency quick enough. 
I think we shall not be sorry then to have pro- 
longed our stay in Paris." 

“ I hope all your expectations will be real- 
ized," said Alexis. 

Jane and Catherine were glad when they heard 
of Didier's success; for they still hoped that 
when he had earned the competency he coveted, 
he would be willing and ready to go home to 
Vallombreux. Their hearts clung to their native 
place, and they could see no happiness outside it. 
In a few months Anatole paid Gussy, settled his 
own affairs satisfactorily and saw himself beyond 
absolute want. For the first time since his arri- 
val in Paris, his receipts more than covered 
his expenses, and he even had good profits to 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. IO9 

■ fall back upon, Jane and Catharine were able 
to procure some sewing-work, which both gave 
them a congenial occupation and helped toward 
the common fund. Didier was proud and hap- 
py, and secretly congratulated himself on having 
left Vallombreux and remained in Paris, spite of 
’ his wife’s and children’s earnestly expressed de- 
sire to go home at once. After a little while, he 
said so openly to Jane, fully expecting her con- 
currence in his opinion ; but though their pre- 
sent condition was comfortable, and Alexis was 
spared the dangers of the work-shop, Jane still 
uncompromisingly preferred Vallombreux to Pa- 
ris ; she would have chosen poverty at home 
rather than wealth in the city. The forced isola- 
tion in the midst of a crowd, the confinement of 
a sedentary life, the close atmosphere, the abrupt 
change of habits, were unutterably painful to her, 
and she could not get used to them. She felt 
that her daughter could not but regret her happy 
youth, and the time when she used to gather 
wild-flowers for the Lady-altar in the village 
church. Alexis too, seemed to have left his spi- 
rits as well as his heart behind him ; for he was 
thoughtful, and sad, and more reserved than was 
natural at his age. His mother had tried more 
than once to get him to unburden himself to her; 
bnt the young man had answered that nothing 
particular ailed him, and that his changed de- 
meanor was owing entirely to his more responsi- 
ble position. 

A year went by, with at least good pecuniary 
results, if with no other and deeper advantages. 
Anatole never left the house except to take his 


no 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


cameos to his employer, and returned in a short 
time, scrupulously bringing home every sou of 
his earnings. By the end of the year he was free 
of debt, had a comfortable home and possessed a 
clear capital of twelve hundred francs. He had 
never missed mass on Sundays, since he had left 
the work-shop, and generally attended the other 
services with his wife and children. In summer, 
they spent their evenings in the fields beyond the 
ramparts, where for a few hours they got rid of 
the noise and bustle of the city, and where the 
green trees and bright sky reminded them of their 
country home, to which they hoped to return in 
due time. Little as they cared for money for 
its own sake, they almost coveted it now, as a 
means of going home. 

Zebedee Jacotot, who had not seen Didier 
since the day when the latter so unceremonious- 
ly bade him keep his distance, found out that 
his cousin was prospering, and resolved to court 
his acquaintance once more, and pluck him of a 
little of his new wealth. He knew Anatole's 
weakness, which certainly was not avarice, but 
rather the reverse, especially if an appeal were 
made to his vanity. Zebedee determined to re- 
venge himself on Didier for Gussy 's impenetra- 
bility to all his advances, and with this idea, he 
arranged his plans and lay in wait for Didier. 
He would have gone straight to the house, but 
he knew that two loving women, and a determin- 
ed youth, kept watch and ward there, so he wise- 
ly left that means untried. 

Jane and her children had taken a great dis- 
like to him, and looked upon him as the primary 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


III 


cause of their leaving Vallombreux. This Zebe- 
dee had noticed, and did not care to beard their 
displeasure. He thought it prudent to try steal- 
thy means, and watched for Anatole several days, 
but never saw him go out. By dint of spying, 
however, he found out that his cousin left home 
every Saturday night between seven and eight 
o'clock to take his week's work to his employer, 
who lived in Philip street. Armed with these 
details, he started one evening to catch Didier on 
his return ; and as Philip street led into a market 
sqviare, he had little trouble in choosing a good 
post of observation behind a booth, or under 
cover of a bush in the square garden. 

He stationed himself in his hiding-place early 
in the evening, and watched Didier go to his em- 
ployer's house. On his return, he accosted him 
as if by accident. His good luck had almost 
made Didier forget his grievances against his 
cousin, and he greeted him kindly. His danger- 
ous companion had soon fascinated him once 
more, and in the sincerity of his heart, Anatole 
wished to give the other some tangible proof of 
his friendship. 

Suppose we go in here ?" he said, pointing 
to a neighboring restaurant, garishly lighted up. 
Zebedee needed no second invitation, and lock- 
ing his arm familiarly into Didier's, he led the 
way to the eating-house. The rooms were 
brightly lighted, and the tables pretty full. There 
was one not far from the bar which seemed un- 
occupied, and here the two friends sat down. Ze- 
bedee took upon himself the ordering of the meal, 
much to Didier's satisfaction ; for the latter as yet 


II2 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


knew little of these places where the Paris work- 
men spend (quicker than they earn it) the money 
destined to support their families during the 
week. Jacotot, well aware that his cousin had 
plenty of money, and was sure to offer to pay 
the whole reckoning, gave his orders recklessly 
enough ; for no considerate feelings were ever 
known to restrain him. When Zebedee saw the 
chance of enjoying himself at another’s expense, 
he invariably seized it ; in his eyes all means 
were lawful, and in this instance he was also 
actuated by the desire to make up for the rebuffs 
he had experienced from Gussy. 

The evening went quickly by for the two men, 
and both Didier and Jacotot rose the worse for 
what they had drunk. Zebedee, who had first 
wheedled his cousin with compliments, had end- 
ed by intoxicating him with fiery ‘ spirits ’ and ex- 
pensive wines. Their talk was loud and eager 
till eleven o’clock struck, at which time the 
place closed. They took no notice till the res- 
taurant-keeper came to turn them out. 

The hours passed like minutes,” said the 
wily Jacotot, and Anatole would have echoed his 
words had he not been busy with his purse. Ja- 
cotot affected to argue with him and insist upon 
taking the expense upon himself. 

Enough,” said Anatole, who had picked up 
some of the Paris jargon. I am rich now, and 
it is my turn to ^ treat ’ you.” 

The evening which he had thus kindly devot- 
ed to his cousin cost him thirty francs — no small 
sum for him ; but he consoled himself with the 
thought that this was an exception to the rule. 



THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. II3 


and that there was no chance of the exception 
growing into a habit. 

The cousins left the eating-house, and Didier 
managed to find his way home. His wife and 
children were sitting up for him, anxiously won- 
dering at his absence. Jane knew what had hap- 
pened as soon as she heard the first words, mut- 
tered in a thick, unsteady voice. She hastened 
to send Alexis and Catherine to bed, not wishing 
them to perceive their father’s shameful state, and 
perhaps thereby lose their respect for him. She 
did not judge it advisable to ask any questions 
herself, but merely helped him to bed, where he 
had no objection to go, for he had still sense 
enough to be ashamed of his humiliating condi- 
tion. The night’s excess forced him to lie abed 
next morning, and he was too ill to go to mass. 
Jane hazarded a few questions in the afternoon ; 
but though she did so with the utmost tenderness 
and precaution, he answered evasively, even im- 
patiently. 

Can’t I be ill, tired out in fact, without your 
seeking some mysterious cause to account for it ?” 

But,” said Jane very gently, surely it was 
not a natural state of mind you were in last 
night. You were unusually excited, and you 
came home so late that I am sure you must have 
met some one.” 

Am I obliged to give an account of every 
hour I spend out of doors ?” said Didier pettish- 
ly ; am I in leading-strings yet, or not come to 
the age of reason?” 

Jane dropped the subject, as her husband was 
getting angry at her questions ; she contented 


1 14 the village steeple. 

herself with hoping that this would not occur 
again. The evening was uncomfortably spent, 
and every one felt relieved when bedtime came. 
On Monday, Anatole went out early, under pre- 
tense that the air would do him good, and make 
him feel fit for work again ; but he went straight 
to his cousin’s room, as he knew he should find 
him at home that day. Like all true Paris work- 
men, Zebedee kept Monday and part of Tuesday 
as holidays, and nothing would induce him to 
break his self-made law. His working week only 
began regularly on Wednesday, and whenever 
his purse was sufficiently full, he never worked 
from Sunday to Sunday. Jacotot was delighted 
to see Anatole, and secretly congratulated him- 
self on his own successful policy. 

Welcome, cousin !” he said ; how glad I am 
to see you ! How kind of you to come to such 
an old hermit as I am !” 

Anatole was quite taken in, and, not to be be- 
hindhand, answered that it was only his duty to 
do so. They soon adjourned to the restaurant, 
which Didier rather liked now, then to a liquor- 
store, then back to the restaurant, where they 
dined and drank to their hearts’ content. The 
day glided by unperceived, and Jacotot, noticing 
his cousin’s growing embarrassment and reluc- 
tance to face homeward, proposed the theatre 
as a suitable ending to a jolly day. 

Didier yielded, and went with his cousin to 
St. Martin’s Theatre, where the play was so 
interesting that he forgot wife, children, and 
home, and did not return till one o’clock in the 
morning. Though thoroughly ashamed of him- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


II5 

self, he was sullenly determined to brook no re- 
proach from his wife ; but the latter, gifted with 
peculiar tact and judgment, had sent Alexis and 
Catherine to bed at their usual hour, and was 
sitting up for her husband alone. While he was 
enjoying himself, the poor woman counted every 
minute with increasing grief and anxiety, and 
with good cause dreaded yet worse trials than she 
had yet undergone. When at last Didier came in, 
a frown on his brow and an unnatural light in his 
eyes, she saw at a glance that this was no time for 
expostulation, and received him in silence. Her 
manner perplexed him far more than if she had 
railed at him : he would have been wild, had she 
reproached him ; now he was angry because she 
did not. Still, he dared not show this ; but 
the next day when Jane shrinkingly asked him 
where he had been all day yesterday, his answer 
was ready. 

I leave you all free to do as you please,’' he 
said dryly ; and I expect you to do the same 
respecting me. I suppose I may take a holiday 
after a week’s hard work ?” 

Jane saw that it was no use to chafe him 
still further, and accordingly desisted. She rig- 
orously examined her conscience to see whe- 
ther any deficiency in her conduct had led Ana- 
tole to desert the family hearth ; and though 
she could discover no cause, she resolved to be 
more gentle and conciliating than ever, and to 
make her children second her in this plan. Her 
efforts, however, were in vain. Didier had caught 
the fever of dissipation ; he haunted the theatre 
and the tavern, and could hardly be driven to his 


ii6 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


work. He liked Paris now, not because he 
hoped to earn enough to live quietly at Vallom- 
breux, but because he had tasted of the poisoned 
cup of city pleasures. Zebedee had, in a few 
days, transported him into an entirely new world. 
Suddenly fascinated by the charm of this vaga- 
bond life, and by the seeming abundance of cheap 
pleasure, he thought of nothing but of earning 
just enough to spend on what was fast becoming 
his master-passion. His weak character, open to 
every kind of influence, yielded at once to the 
first serious temptation it had met with. His 
profits lessened as his work was neglected, and 
to this neglect he soon added a regular Monday's 
holiday. It was not long before he spent several 
dsLjs of the week in idleness, like his precious 
cousin Zebedee ; and so on the* downward track 
went the poor peasant of Vallombreux. 


X. 


Temptation and Resistance. 

Anatole Didier and Zebedee Jacotot, who 
had not spoken to each other for a year, now 
became fast friends. As the latter was generall)^' 
‘‘ out of funds,'' the former paid for all their com- 
mon amusements and debaucheries, which soon 
swallowed up pretty heavy sums of money. 
The savings, of course, melted away ; and 
though the trade of a cameo-cutter was still 
flourishing and lucrative, Anatole never found 
that he could spare any part of his earnings for 
the bank. He left the work mainly to Alexis, 
that he himself might have more time to waste 
in expensive pleasures. Jane employed, to win 
him back, every means which her gentleness or 
her strength of character alternately suggested 
to her; but he soon showed that he cared no- 
thing lor her rebukes or her tears. He either 
took no notice of her or abused her, and swore 
he would listen to no such sermons. 

I am master here," he cried angrily; ‘‘and 
I mean to live in peace. I know what I am 
about." 

These brutal answers, and his rapid steps in 
the path of evil, grieved Jane to the heart; 


Il8 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

every day, week, and month, things grew worse 
and worse, till there was hardly a hope of 
reclaiming the wretched prodigal. Anatole 
gradually neglected his religious duties ; and 
though he did not work on Sundays, neither 
did he go to mass. Both that day and Monday 
he generally spent out of doors, frequenting the 
taverns and other haunts of dissipation, and 
only going home for a few hours to bully and 
distress his family. He had lost even shame 
now, and brazened it out before his wife and 
children even as he recklessly defied the voice 
of his own conscience. 

Worse than all, he soon tried to corrupt his 
son, whose exemplary conduct was a standing re- 
proach to him. He made up his mind to silence 
if he could so inopportune a witness against 
himself ; and one Sunday, after Alexis had come 
home from church, he said to him, 

I want you to come out with me, my boy.’' 

I would rather stay at home,” said Alexis ; 

I am going back to church this evening.” 

Didier again pressed him, and the youth re- 
sisted as before, when his father, seeing that no 
ordinary means would persuade him, said se- 
riously, 

I really want you : I hope you will not dis- 
appoint me.” 

You know that I am not in the habit of 
disobeying you,” pleaded Alexis. 

It is not good for you to be always mewed 
up,” said Didier, at your age. You should go 
out and get a mouthful of fresh air.” 

I am quite content with my sedentary life,” 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


II9 

said his son ; but since you insist upon it, I will 
go with you/' 

Didier said no more, but led the way toward 
the boulevard. Jacotot soon joined them, ac- 
cording to a previous arrangement, and did not 
fail casually to propose a visit to the neighbor- 
ing tavern. Didier accepted at once, but Alexis 
irresolutely looked toward home ; and his 
father, well aware of what his thoughts were, 
caught him roughly by the arm, saying. 

Don’t disgrace me before Jacotot. Do as 
we do ; there is no harm in it.” 

The poor young fellow, dreading to witnese 
some shameful scene, and fearing for his own 
strength of purpose, reluctantly yielded, and 
followed his elders. Zebedee, as usual, gave all 
the necessary orders, and called for refresh- 
ments,” which consisted of fiery liquors. The 
number of glasses grew so alarmingly great, 
that Alexis, fearing to be overcome, despite his 
anxious watch on his own movements, tried to 
leave the house, but the others detained him 
forcibly. His father angrily threatened him, and 
desired him to stay till the end. Thus con- 
demned to witness this long debauch, he suffered 
tortures for several hours, and was fain to hide 
his emotion, though he saw his father delibe- 
rately placing himself on a level with the beasts. 
He staid, indeed, but sternly refused to share 
in pleasures which became disgusting as soon 
as they overstepped the bounds of moderation. 
His heart was with his mother and sister, whom 
he knew to be anxiously and sadly awaiting 
their return. Indeed, they had trembled for his 


120 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


safety, and dreaded that he too would be drawn 
into the evil courses of the average Paris work- 
man ; for they knew but too well that Jacotot 
would do all he could to gain the same influence 
over the son which he had got over the father. 
It was night when Didier and Alexis got home : 
the former bore on his swollen features the trace 
of his day’s debauch ; but the latter’s sad de- 
meanor was sufficient proof that he had not 
partaken in his father’s excesses. This, at least, 
was a comfort to poor Jane. 

Next morning, Anatole roughly asked. Where 
was his son ? 

He is at work,” said Jane ; but her husband 
angrily interrupted her. 

Can’t you give the boy an instant’s rest ? 
He works hard enough during the week, to rest 
himself a little on Monday morning. Alexis is 
not a slave, and I won’t have him treated so.” 

I should be glad of his having a little relax- 
ation,” said the poor woman, deeply wounded 
by these words and reproaches. 

Then why is he at work so early, when he 
came home so late last night?” 

Alexis got up at his usual hour ; you know 
how eager and active he is ; and you may be 
sure that I would not have wakened him. He 
went to work of his own accord, dear boy, so 
anxious is he to keep our affairs in good order. 
It would break his heart if, through any neglect 
of his, we were to fall back into want.” 

There was a pause, during which Didier 
seemed to be thinking of his wife’s words ; then, 
growing angrily red, he resumed, 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


I2I 


Alexis is not such as I would have him ; he 
must change his manners, or it will be the worse 
for him.’' 

What do you see wanting in him ? Is he 
not steady, religious, and obedient ?” 

“ I do not deny it ; but I say, that in Paris he 
must live as Paris lives, not as Vallombreux 
does. He should do as other young men do, 
and give up his hermit’s life : he will be pointed 
at in the streets soon.” 

Then I hope your wishes may never be ful- 
filled,” cried Jane. I have a comforting belief 
in Alexis’s future ; I’m sure he will remain true 
to the faith of his childhood, and the principles 
of his religion ; he will not swerve from the path 
of duty. I would rather see him die before my 
eyes, than witness the corruption of. his heart 
and soul.” 

Anatole looked daggers at his wife. 

Another sermoni” he muttered between his 
teeth, and he would have continued in the same 
brutal, insulting vein had not the bell rung that 
moment. He opened the door himself, and was 
rather surprised to see Jacotot, who, for the first 
time since they had renewed acquaintance, now 
presented himself at Didier’s house. The visitor 
saw Jane’s tearful face and Didier’s evident ex- 
citement, and was at no loss to perceive that 
some painful scene had taken place. 

Excuse me,” he said, as he touched his cap. 

I fear I am disturbing you, but you have only 
to say so, and I will leave.” 

Jane said nothing ; the sight of Jacotot was 
obnoxious to her ; for she saw in him the cause 


122 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


of her husband’s ruin, and knew but too well 
what share he had had in initiating Didier into 
evil habits. Didier, having controlled his former 
ill-temper, answered his cousin, 

'' No, no, don’t leave ; you are always wel- 
come here,” and he glanced threateningly at his 
wife. I am always glad to see you.” 

If that is so,” said Zebedee, I will stay.” 

Take a seat, cousin,” said Didier, drawing a 
chair forward. Jacotot sat down opposite his 
cousin. 

You looked curious when I came in,” he be- 
gan. Your eyes were starting out of your 
head.” 

‘^Oh! never mind/’ said Didier. That is 
constitutional with me,” which singularly lucid 
explanation seemed quite to content Jacotot. 

Jane took the first opportunity to leave the 
two men and join Catherine, who was sewing in 
the next room. When they were alone, Zebedee 
began a commonplace conversation, and present- 
ly asked, 

'' What are you going to do to-day ?” 

Why, nothing. Did you ever know me 
work on Monday ? You know I would not so far 
transgress the code of an honest workman.” 

True, I see your keen sense of honor, and 
congratulate you too. You have become a true 
Parisian at last. I always said you would end 
by shedding your skin.” 

What do you mean?” said Didier, who was 
very quick to take offense. 

Dear me,” said Jacotot awkwardly. I 
mean any thing you like,” 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


123 


Do you mean to say I was a prig when I 
came to Paris ?” 

I only repeated a coarse saying in vogue 
about country folks. Don’t quarrel with me 
about it.” 

‘‘Well, let me tell you that I never wanted 
for linen or for decent clothes, and that is more 
than you can say ; for you don’t seem very flush 
of money, to judge by the clothes you wear.” 

“There, now,” said Zebedee, with a clumsy 
attempt at coaxing, “ don’t be angry about it, cou- 
sin. Don’t you see that I only used a current 
phrase well known in Paris and perhaps else- 
where. To ‘ shed your skin,’ in our sense, sim- 
ply means to put off the ‘greenhorn,’ to be up to 
Paris ways and actions. There is nothing to 
hurt your feelings in that, I hope. You have too 
much common sense to twist my words the 
wrong way.” 

“ Oh ! that’s all right,” said Anatole. 

“ How could you think that I, your old com- 
rade, would insult you ?” 

“Never mind,” said Didier, “do not mention 
it any more. Let us go to the tavern.” 

“ Are we to go alone?” asked Jacotot with a 
wink. 

“ Why, who is to go with us ?” said Anatole, 
feigning not to understand his cousin, for he 
hardly relished the idea of another domestic 
quarrel. 

“ 1 thought,” said Zebedee, “ that we were to 
undertake your son’s education. The young 
fellow is well worth the trouble.” 

“ I am afraid he will not prove very tractable. 


124 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


We can make nothing of him, nor give him a 
taste for our kind of life/' 

But he is not an animal like Gussy, who will 
listen to no advice, and who grubs along, heap- 
ing up money as he would in his hole of a village. 
Your son has more sense than Gussy, I should 
hope/' 

'' I venture to say," replied Anatole proudly, 
that my son has more sense in his little finger 
than Gussy has in his whole body." 

'‘Well, then, he must be one of us. A de- 
cent young man can not live quite alone, and 
shut himself up like a hermit." 

" I fear that, in spite of his good sense, Alexis 
has much the same notions as Gussy. I saw that 
he was very uncomfortable yesterday, while 
with us." 

"Well," said Jacotot emphatically, "this 
must be altered. You must not allow your son 
to do just as he chooses, and make himself ridi- 
culous. He will disgrace you, otherwise. It is 
your business to see to it." 

Jacotot's commanding tone and his impudent 
assurance took fatal effect on his cousin, whose 
mind he entirely controlled, and who had no 
longer the shadow of a will to oppose to his sug- 
gestions. 

" Where is our young friend ?" said Zebedee, 
as he made a motion to leave the room. 

" At work since early this morning." 

" Well, let us go to him and carry him off, 
will he, nill he." 

Anatole dared not resist, and quietly followed 
the cowardly bully, who, having accomplished his 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


125 


ruin> was now planning that of his innocent son. 
Alexis could not hide his displeasure at the sight 
of Jacotot, which fact did not escape the visitor. 

I see,” he said, that my presence is un- 
pleasant to you ; but I am not going to speak to 
you, my boy— I don’t assume any such right. 
Your father of course can do as he pleases, and 
you will allow that he has a right to dictate to 
you.” 

I am always ready to listen to an honest 
man’s advice,” said Alexis pointedly. 

Do you mean to insinuate that I am not an 
honest man ?” asked Zebedee. 

I did not mean to address you in particular,” 
said the young man, but since you put the ques- 
tion point-blank, I will take the opportunity of 
telling you what my opinion of you is. You 
wormed yourself into our family like an evil ser- 
pent, you did us all the harm in your power, and 
you would wish no better than to see us tho- 
roughly ruined. No honest man would act thus, 
and therefore I tell you I am not disposed to 
hearken to your fair words.” 

Do you hear that, cousin ?” said Zebedee, 
turning to Didier. Is it thus you bring up your 
son ? Upon my word, I congratulate you.” 

Didier, pale with anger, would not brook Zebe- 
dee’s insinuation, and addressing his son, he said 
hoarsely, 

“ Come, there must be none of this ; don’t 
repeat such words, for I will not stand it. I 
desire you to come with us.” 

‘‘ Father,” replied the young man, while he 
looked so resolutely at Anatole that the latter 


126 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE; 


shrank from his gaze. I am sorry to be obliged 
to refuse compliance with the order you have 
just given me ; but my conscience forbids me to 
enter a tavern again or mix with men in every 
way despicable. You may do what you like, but 
you will not succeed in leading me astray. Would 
you see my mother and sister want bread once 
more, and pine away under the heavy burden of 
poverty and care ? I shall work instead of giv- 
ing myself up to dissipation, and neither you nor 
your precious friend will change my purpose.’* 
Alexis turned back to his work, and Didier, 
staggered for a moment by this determined op- 
position, would fain have resumed his attempts, 
had not Jacotot, who feared that the youth would 
turn his anger on him, persuaded Anatole to a 
hasty retreat. 


The Panic. 


Didier had now been a cameo-cutter for two 
years, during one of which he had spent his time 
with and under the direction of his cousin Zebe- 
dee Jacotot. A very few weeks were enough to ini- 
tiate him into the terrible courses which so speed- 
ily ruin Paris workmen. Idleness, lounging, bad 
companionship and expensive tastes combined to 
make him live little at home, and when he was 
obliged to stay in his work-shop to earn money, 
he was ill-tempered to a degree, constantly com- 
plaining of his ill-luck, and declaring that he should 
have been a wealthy land-owner, not a common 
workman. He vented his hatred of the rich on 
all occasions, and ardently embraced the silly and 
envious doctrines styled socialist. 

Alexis’s steady continuance at work warded off 
poverty from their home, and even enabled his 
mother and sister to live in comparative comfort ; 
but the time and money which Anatole daily 
wasted made it impossible to economize. The 
first twelve hundred francs Didier had saved 
were yet untouched, and placed aS' they were in 



128 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


railway shares, they brought in some slight addi- 
tion to the family purse, but what was this slender 
sum ? Nothing was ever added to it, and it could 
not increase by accumulation of its own interest to 
any thing like a sum to be depended upon ; besides, 
Didier's pleasures swallowed up every sou of the 
current profits of his own work. He had declared 
that he would never go back to Vallombreux 
unless as a rich man. His present conduct cer- 
tainly augured little in favor of this contingency, 
and his wife and children thus saw before them a 
long prospective of weary years spent in the 
capital, a new trouble thus added to their old 
ones. Besides this, Anatole seemed quite to 
have forgotten his home, he never mentioned it, 
even casually, and was forever singing the 
praises of the city. No one contradicted him, 
fearing the result on his temper. 

The future offered no hope of better times, 
and the wretched family already felt the chill of 
the coming storm, while, as if to crown all, Jane 
and her children heard that all Vallombreux knew 
the details of her husband’s ruin and degrada- 
tion. They had had a letter from Joseph Lanrey, 
addressed to Alexis, telling them this last sad 
fact. 

We have already said that Gussy, who was 
now possessed of nearly three thousand francs, 
seldom communicated with his parents. He 
generally asked one of the Didier family to be 
his scribe, but on the last occasion he had em- 
ployed a different secretary. True he had gone 
to his townsfolk’s house, but had there met with 
Zebedee Jacotot, who, backed by Anatole, had 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


129 


taken the liberty of badgering Gussy. The lat- 
ter, though not substantially cleverer than before, 
was nevertheless quick to take offense, and did 
not relish his former friend's sneers ; indeed, but 
for Anatole's interference, a personal encounter 
might have taken place. Zebedee, as cowardlj’’ 
as he was insolent, then tried to mend matters by 
an apology, but Gussy swore that he would make 
him remember and rue the day on which he had 
thus assailed him. 

I have an account of longer date than you 
may choose to remember, to settle with you," 
said the boor, who prided himself on using finan- 
cial terms, and I must have it out with you, and 
give you the drubbing you deserve." 

Jacotot took care to be silent, fearing that 
Gussy might take it into his head to settle this 
said account on the spot. He breathed more 
freely when the door was shut on his doughty 
foe. Gussy had left Didier without telling him 
of the original object of his visit ; but having 
noticed that Anatole had smiled encouragingly 
at Jacotot's insolent and aggressive remarks, the 
young blacksmith resolved to break with the 
family altogether. He chose a public scrivener 
as his secretary, and laid a plan of revenge 
against the unwary Didier. If Gussy’s intellect 
was but little developed, his ill-nature was none 
the less active and inventive ; so he plainly in- 
formed Grenouillard of Didier’s idle courses, his 
constant companionship with Zebedee Jacotot, 
and his voluntary subjection to the latter’s evil 
influence. He said that Anatole worked but 
little, never on Monday, and seldom on Tuesday ; 


130 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

that he spent his week’s wages at the taverns, 
restaurants, theatres, etc. ; and that were it not 
for Alexis, Jane, and Catherine, all working hard 
for their support, the family would starve. Gussy ’s 
warped spirit had taught him where and how to 
sting, and he had not miscalculated the effect 
of these disparaging details. He rejoiced, nay 
crowed over it, that Didier should be thus pub- 
licly discredited in the estimation of all his friends 
and neighbors at Vallombreux, and though he 
himself saw little of the Didier family, he knew 
their affairs by heart. He adroitly picked up a 
hint here and a hint there, he saw Jacotot and 
Anatole by chance in this or that liquor-store or 
low theatre, he learned that Jane and her children 
led a miserable life and were cut to the heart by 
Anatole’s conduct. These facts had been slowly 
stored in Gussy ’s mind, where they had borne fruit 
in the mean plan of revenge he had now suc- 
ceeded in executing. He was fond of pretending 
in public to the character of a steady, saving lad, 
who never wasted time or money, and without 
telling his father the exact sum he had at com- 
mand, he contrived to let him know that Paris 
was a gold mine to him. 

It was not indifferent to him now whether he 
lived and slaved at Vallombreux or in Paris; for 
he was rapidly heaping up treasures for himself, 
and each new gold piece that swelled his capital 
rang more sweetly in his ears than the music of 
heaven. He was earning five francs a day, and 
did not care to earn more, while he still lived 
on one franc, both for board and lodging. He 
had struck the work-shop anvil to some pur- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 131 

pose, and was now able to put by four francs a 
day. 

Joseph Lanrey wrote very affectionately to 
Alexis, telling him how grieved he was at these 
reports about Didier having reached Vallom- 
breux. He sympathized with Jane and Cathe- 
rine in their desolate and precarious position, but 
ended by assuring him that neither old Lanrey 
nor any of the family had changed in kind feeling 
toward the absent ones. look upon Cathe- 
rine as my betrothed,’' he said; and my sister 
begs me to say that she will never forget you.” 

The youth read this affectionate letter to his 
mother and sister, who grieved sorely to learn 
the ill news it contained; for they, like Alexis, 
would fain have kept their miserable secret from 
being known at Vallombreux. The evil was 
done now, and could not be undone ; for Gussy 
was incapable of delicacy of feeling, and was 
indifferent to the mutual duties of civilized man- 
kind. It was better to bear the slight in silence 
than beg him to be less communicative in future ; 
for to all remonstrance or entreaty he would 
only have answered that he was no scholar, and 
acted according to his natural instincts. 

Worse trials yet threatened the Didier fa- 
mily: the poor creatures had not drunk the cup 
of sorrow to the dregs. The year 1858 closed 
with rumors of a financial crisis. There was 
a panic in America, but its effects were felt in 
Europe as well, particularly in France. Com- 
merce was hampered, and exportation ceased 
altogether for a time. Didier at first took no 
notice of this, never dreaming that his own ob- 


132 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


scure but lucrative trade would suffer in the end. 
Things went on smoothly till the end of Novem- 
ber, and there seemed no likelihood that the 
cameo-cutting business would feel the effects 
of the panic ; but the first week^ in December, 
when Alexis went to Philip street to deliver his 
week's work, his employer told him that he had 
no further orders to give. The poor youth 
went home broken-hearted. He knew that his 
own work was the only barrier between his 
family and starvation ; he could just keep his 
mother and sister, from day to day ; but what 
was the look-out in the future ? Jane, seeing his 
troubled face, anxiously asked him what was 
the matter? had he met any one, or heard any 
bad news ? 

Alexis would fain have delayed his answer ; 
but his mother’s terrified look left him no alter- 
native, and he said with a sigh, 

I do not know what is to become of us ; I 
can get no more work; the cameo-seller could 
give me no further order, and I fear our trade 
is ruined.” 

Did he give you any money ?” 

Yes, he paid me for the work I took there 
to-day, but that will not last us long.” 

Jane saw at . a glance how fatal this state 
of things, if prolonged, would turn out, but, 
unwilling to add to Alexis’s grief, she held her 
tongue. What made their position worse was 
this : for the last fortnight, Anatole had deserted 
his little work-shop, and was always out with 
Jacotot, from restaurant to tavern, and tavern 
to theatre. They were both leading a life of 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


133 


fast and furious dissipation, spending money by 
the handful, never stopping to think that any 
day might bring them to the brink of starvation. 
Zebedee systematically avoided such thoughts, 
recklessly crying. 

Sufficient for the day is the pleasure there- 
of’^ 

He reckoned on the benefit-club he belonged 
to, to help him at a pinch ; and if he was sick, 
there was always a bed to be had at the hospital. 
What need of looking forward, laying money by, 
or even working at all, if he did not feel inclined 
to do so? Was he a slave or a martyr that he 
should deny himself a moment’s relaxation ? 
His conduct certainly showed that such were 
not his doctrines ; and that in his eyes, pleasure 
was the sole aim of existence. 

Didier, though not so well versed in these 
theories — the cherished code of the Parisian 
working-man — very nearly matched his cousin 
in recklessness and spendthrift habits. The 
morrow was nothing to him, and he only differed 
from Jacotot in having served a less long but not 
less thorough apprenticeship in the art of throw- 
ing away time and money. When he went home 
and heard that there was no more work to be 
had, the probable interruption of his selfish 
pleasures was the first thing that struck him ; 
and he cast about him, to see on whom he could 
lay the blame of this, as well as vent his ill- 
temper for the untimely occurrence. 

They were not pleased with your work, 
Alexis ; that was it, I am sure,” he said crossly. 


134 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


'' Not at all/’ said the youth ; '' the master 
even praised the work I delivered.” 

Then why don’t he give us more orders ? 
He must have some reason.” 

He has no more orders to give to any one.” 

What does that mean ? There used to be 
almost more than we could do.” 

The panic in America seems to be the 
cause. Trade is languishing all over Paris, and 
cameo-work is at a discount.” 

^'Bother!” said Anatole, ''it will only be for 
a short time ; things can not fail to fall back 
into the old groove before long.” After a few 
minutes’ pause, he added, 

" It will be a week’s rest for all of us, at any 
rate. So much the better.” 

Alexis did not think thus philosophically. 
During the next week, he visited every cameo- 
seller in the city and offered his services ; but in 
vain. The same answer awaited him every- 
where ; there was no work to be had : the shell 
business was seemingly dead. He came home 
on Saturday evening, thoroughly discouraged, 
and told his mother how his efforts had been 
rewarded. Anatole soon came in, and seeing 
the evident distress of his family, impatiently 
exclaimed, 

" Always blubbering ! How is it I never see 
any thing but cross faces, when I come home ?” 

" My dear,” gently said Jane, " we have good 
reason to look sad, for we are penniless.” 

" Have we not the twelve hundred francs we 
saved the first year ?” roughly asked Didier. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


135 


Yes/* said Jane, but when that is spent, 
where shall we be ?” 

That is it,'' said Alexis. Will our business 
ever right itself again ? I doubt it ; I think it 
has gone forever." 

Didier ignored this remark, and went on 
speaking. 

I will sell our railway shares, to-morrow. 
The money we shall thus realize will carry us 
through the winter, even supposing we do not 
resume work earlier." 

His wife and children trembled at these 
words ; it was a new source of anxiety to them 
that Didier should wish to manage this sale him- 
self ; for they well knew that if he once got the 
money into his own hands, there was small like- 
lihood of its lasting any time. His nature was 
such that he could not be expected to resist the 
temptations suggested by such a sum of money 
irresponsibly placed in his keeping. But alas! 
Jane knew how useless it was to offer any oppo- 
sition to her husband's humors. 

He did, as he had said, realize this sum the 
very next day ; but of the twelve hundred francs 
he only left one hundred with his wife. Things 
were in the same state in January ; there was still 
no work and no prospect of any. Most other 
trades revived, but cameo-cutting seemed to 
have sunk forever. Fashion, that inexorable 
law, had condemned shell-jewelry, and it seemed 
there was no appeal. Jane was obliged to ask 
her husband for money to pay the rent and keep 
the table, whereupon he grudgingly gave her 
two hundred francs, half of which sum was al- 


136 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


ready due for the quarterly rent. At the end of 
March every sou of the original twelve hundred 
francs was gone ; he and his cousin Jacotot had 
managed to squander nine hundred francs in less 
than three months. Heedless of approaching 
starvation, he never denied himself any of his 
sottish pleasures ; and when his wife again asked 
him for a sufficient sum to carry the family 
through the next month, he answered gloomily, 

I have no more, myself.’' 

‘‘ Why, what did you do with the twelve hun- 
dred francs you had the end of December. You 
can not have spent all ; you gave me only three 
hundred out of the whole.” 

Am I answerable to you for what I spend ?” 
flashed out Didier. Am I not master here ? I 
insist upon being left in peace. I shall do as I 
please, and I allow no one to lecture me, do you 
hear ?” 

He left the room in dudgeon, his poor wife 
looking after him in despair : her worst fears were 
realized, and the last resources of the family irre- 
trievably gone. Anatole came home that night, 
and without saying a word, threw down a couple 
of hundred francs before his wife, who was simple 
enough to believe that the man had repented of 
his deceit and had denied himself for once, to 
alleviate the distress of his family. Her despair 
would have been deeper and deeper had she 
known whence came this money. 

Didier had seen that morning, that his wife 
and children would starve if he brought them no 
speedy relief ; but on the other hand, he could 
not make up his mind to abandon his evil courses. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


137 


So he went to Gussy, whom he accosted with 
cringing politeness. Gussy, with the instinct of 
a wild animal guarding its young, guessed the 
object of this unexpected visit. He cherished a 
grudge against Anatole, with whose tacit permis- 
sion Jacotot had ridiculed him, and his welcome 
to him was therefore sufficiently rude, not to say 
brutish. He seemed to have some trouble to 
keep his hands off his wretched guest ; Didier 
appeared stolidly unmindful of this, and address- 
ed him with affected composure. My dear 
Gussy,’' he said, you obliged me once before, 
and I am sure you will not refuse me the same 
service to-day.” 

‘‘ Humph !” growlingly answered the boor. 
** It just depends on the terms you propose, and 
on the sum you want.” 

‘‘You can lend me the amount I want, 
know.” 

“ How much is it ?” 

“ A thousand francs.” 

“ Well, I will let you have it, but of course I 
must have proper security, for I am bound, you 
see, to protect myself.” 

“ Of course,” sullenly said Anatole, whom 
this caution exasperated. “ What security do 
you require ?” 

“ A mortgage on your land at Vallombreux.” 
This unexpected demand, implying as it did such 
utter distrust of Anatole’s means of repayment, 
wounded the latter to the quick, but necessity 
knows no law, and he was forced to comply. 

“Very well,” he said huskily, “if it must be 
so, I will consent.” 


138 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE^ 

The business was quickly transacted, and 
Anatole received the loan. Gussy could afford 
the seeming generosity of exacting no more than 
three per cent interest ; we shall know his rea- 
sons by and by, for although Grenouillard's pre- 
cious son lacked mental activity on every other 
subject, he was gifted with unerring insight with 
regard to money matters and other material ad- 
vantages. 


XII. 


The Garret. 

Spring came, but brought no relief to the un- 
fortunate Didiers. Alexis had only been able to 
get work a few odd days during the winter, and 
then at reduced wages. Anatole gave his wife 
only just enough to stave off actual starvation, 
and carefully husbanded his money, not that he 
might have enough at a time of future distress, 
but that he might be able to continue his dissipa- 
ted mode of life. He spent the greater part of 
his time out of doors, dived deeper down into 
the abyss, and renounced soon all pretense of in- 
tending to help his family in their necessity. By 
dint of economy, hard work, and long vigils, 
Jane and Catherine managed to creep through 
from day to day, though they never could be 
sure that death might not look them in the face 
on the morrow. Their small earnings could not 
suffice for all, and the rent came due again by 
the end of April. They must pay or be turned 
out. Finding that the cameo business was not 
likely to look up again, and that his efforts were 
fruitless on all sides, Alexis thought of a plan 
which he communicated to Jane ; she entirely 
approved of it, since it would meet for a while 


140 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


the terrible emergency of their position. It was 
more difficult to get Didier's consent, for the 
wretched man hated change and was always angry 
at being disturbed in his ordinary course of life. 
The young man, however, determined to propose 
his plan, and chose what he deemed a favorable 
moment. Anatole at length consented, though 
most grudgingly, and even said sullenly that he 
saw the need there was of lessening their expen- 
ses regarding rent. Six weeks later, the unhappy 
family removed to a miserable apartment con- 
sisting of three garrets, on the floor of a ten- 

ement-house, in a very unwholesome and smoky 
street. The place was so situated that its occu- 
pants must necessarily be boiled in the summer and 
frozen in the winter. Alexis had been forced to 
go back to the work-shop in which he had been 
on his first arvival in Paris. The poor youth, 
whose soul was still so pure and childlike, suffer- 
ed tortures as before ; the gibes and sneers re- 
doubled against him, and all the temptations that 
are familiar as household words to Paris work- 
men, assailed him anew. Insulted by some, actu- 
ally ill-treated by others, on account of his firm 
faith and unblemished morals, he would alone 
have faltered under the burden of these cowardly 
attacks, had it not been for his undaunted confi- 
dence in God, and the thought of his mother 
and sister, who wholly depended upon him. Paris 
had never seemed so dreary to him. The first 
year of his stay he had been home-sick and had 
known pressing want, true; but on the other 
hand, his father was leading a Christian life and 
giving his family a good example. In those days. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. I4I 

too, Anatole thought of the future, and was not 
averse co the idea of returning to Vallombreux. 
Things were far otherwise now. The present, 
however terrible, was but a prelude to a worse 
future. Didier almost distanced Jacotot in idle- 
ness; drunkenness, and recklessness; he rarely 
worked at all, and if he did, he spent his slender 
wages in a few moments of so-called pleasure. 
He never came home save to demand what 
little money his wife and children had earned 
with the sweat of their brow, or to grieve them 
by scenes of unprovoked anger and brutality. 
He tormented his wife and ended by hating her 
as well as Alexis, whom he suspected of secretly 
blaming his conduct. He would often taunt 
them violently with this, and when they tried to 
appease him, refused to believe their assurances 
to the contrary. Knowing his own degradation, 
he saw in every good man a censor of his shame- 
ful doings : he would gladly have found in Alexis 
an accomplice instead of an accuser, and it was 
not his fault if the poor boy had not followed in 
his footsteps. His visits to his home were lucki- 
ly but short and infrequent; for he made their 
life so wretched that his wife and daughter could 
scarcely have borne his company very long. 

Catherine alone had the power to move him ; 
he never directly bullied her, and would sudden- 
ly cease his railing if she happened to come in 
during one of his conjugal scenes.” Alexis had 
sometimes seen him look piteously at the girl 
whose face bore the traces of sorrow and priva- 
tion. He seemed to be watching the girl’s 
drooping spirits and waning health; he would 


142 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

look uneasy, and sometimes tears stole down his 
cheeks ; but habit had taken too fast a hold of 
him, and he fell back inevitably into his old evil 
courses. His religion seemed as if lulled to 
sleep, he avoided churches and priests, and never 
heard an instruction or an appeal to the soul. 
He had, as it were, placed himself beyond the 
reach of those divine means by which the church 
seeks to attract the prodigal and rouse the luke- 
warm. His only companions as well as counsel- 
ors were Jacotot and a few more of the same evil 
set, who stuck to him like leeches, determined to 
draw his very heart’s blood. 

Alexis grew more and more silent and anx- 
ious : nothing could rouse him from his habitual 
grief. This did not escape his mother, who asked 
him whether any thing ailed him, specially. 

Alas ! mother dear,” said he, what do you 
want me to do or say ?” 

Only to let me know and share any new 
sorrow that burdens you.” 

The sorrow you would fain share is one that 
God alone can comfort, mother; it blights the 
soul, because its origin is one that will simply 
crush all the hopes of the future for me.” 

“ Good God ! what can you mean?” cried Jane, 
frightened at her son’s ghastly pallor. 

I will tell you frankly,” said Alexis ; our 
horrible situation is such that I think it my duty 
to put away from me the one hope on which my 
future was built. I was happy, God knows, when 
I thought that I should one day win Georgie 
Lanrey for my wife ; but I am compelled to 
abandon that dream of happiness,” 



THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 1 43 

‘'You surely do not believe that Father Lan- 
rey will refuse you his daughter’s hand, because 
you have been unfortunate.” 

" No, indeed : I know his honor and the sa- 
credness of his word. But the respect I bear 
him, and my own feelings of self-respect, forbid 
, my aspiring any longer to this marriage, which 
would have insured the happiness of my life. Be- 
sides, I owe myself to you, mother, to my sister, 
and even to my father, spite of all he has unhap- 
pily done to alienate us. I feel bound to keep 
this resolve.” 

Jane well understood the heroic renuncia- 
tion endured in this resolution, but she tried to 
speak of hope to him. He answered her with 
tears in his eyes, 

“ Mother, don’t speak so to me ; you make it 
harder for me to do my duty. Hope is dead 
within me, life has nothing left worth hoping for.” 

Alexis’s voice denoted such deep despondency 
that his mother was frightened, and even dread- 
ed an utter prostration of moral strength ; she 
tremblingly asked him whether he no longer 
leant upon Providence and believed in the mercy 
of God. 

" I have an unutterable confidence in God,” 
said Alexis, in accents of calm resignation. " I 
believe that the all-merciful God whom you 
taught me to love and serve, only tries His crea- 
tures on earth to make them fit for heaven, that 
suffering is the lot of the Lord’s beloved ones, 
the sacred inheritance reserved to those souls 
whom He anneals in His own fire and destines to 
a bright immortality. He fashions these souls as 




144 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE* 


an artist does his clay, or a goldsmith his gems, 
that they may be fitted for their appointed place 
in the Holy City. The wounds we bear will 
show in heaven on the resurrection-day, even as 
those of our risen Saviour. Yes, my hopes are 
bright and steadfast ; but they all point to a bet- 
ter life beyond the grave.” 

Alexis's heightened color, his sparkling eye, 
his evident sincerity were sufficient proof that 
his faith was indeed steadfast, and his mother 
heard' him with a religious awe, as if his voice 
had been one of those with which spirits are 
wont to manifest themselves to human under- 
standings in the fervor of meditation and prayer. 
As she did not answer, he resumed in a singular- 
ly gentle tone, 

‘‘ I cheerfully bow to the trial, however hard 
it may seem. But when my duty to you, my sis- 
ter, and my father is done, I pray God, our Fa- 
ther, in His mercy to shorten the days of my pil 
grimage. I doubt not He will hear my prayer, 
and take me to Himself.” 

His good and pious mother felt her heart too 
full for words ; she too had prayed for the same 
grace herself. O God!” she had often said, 
when I shall no longer be of use to my husband 
and my children, I beseech Thee, take me hence. 
Still, O Lord ! Thy will, not mine, be done.” 

Jane endeavored to join her merits to those of 
the Lord on Mount Olivet, the eve of His me- 
morable Sacrifice. For two years, her life had 
been one long agony ; each hour left its mark 
upon her as an additional wound. Mother and 
son, having now mutually calmed and comforted 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


145 


each other, resolved to be strong to face adver- 
sity, and above all not to speak of their sorrows 
before Catherine, and to do all they could to 
guard that tender blossom from the consequences 
of this terrible life. 

The next day was Sunday, and Alexis was 
free. Notwithstanding the poverty in which his 
family was plunged, he had determined not to 
work on Sundays, saying that work on the day of 
rest brought no blessing to the worker, and that 
God has means of making that worthless which 
was unlawfully earned on the Sabbath day. He 
went early to church, went to confession and 
Holy Communion, and with the presence of His 
Saviour within his bosom, solemnly renewed the 
sacrifice of his hopes for the future. He gave up 
all without reserve, only begging of God to ac- 
cept his sacrifice, and shower His blessings in re- 
turn, on his mother, father, and sister. He left 
the church at peace with himself, and determined 
to pursue the path of duty. As soon as he reach- 
ed home, he sat down to write the following let- 
ter to old Father Lanrey : 

‘‘ My kind and good Friend : I feel myself 
under the painful necessity of telling you things 
which it breaks my heart to reveal, but I see not 
how I can help it. You already know that our si- 
tuation in Paris is precarious, and our ruin almost 
complete. I am almost the only support of my 
parents, for whom I am forced to work day and 
night. I do not complain, for I look upon it as a 
sacred duty to work for those who brought me 
up and tended me so lovingly. You see there- 


146 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

fore that I can not, must not, dream of a future 
of my own, apart from theirs ; my life must be 
one of self-sacrifice ; it is God’s will. 

I am deeply grieved to be forced to give 
up all hopes of Georgie as my wife. I give you 
back your word, and ask your leave to consider 
my own canceled. I dare no longer hope to 
marry, I offered up this bitter renunciation before 
the Blessed Sacrament this morning, and though 
it breaks my heart, I must stand to it. 

I need not tell you, my dear Lanrey, that my 
affection for you and yours is unalterable. I shall 
never forget your kindness to me ; the thought 
of you will comfort me in the day of trial, for I 
am sure that you will always think kindly of me.” 

This sad but brave letter grieved the old man, 
who loved Alexis as his own son ; but he told 
neither his son nor his daughter of it, and wrote 
back at once, telling his unhappy young friend 
that, were his situation a thousand times worse 
yet, he would not refuse him Georgie’s hand in 
marriage. He tried to persuade him that with 
his wife’s little fortune he would more easily sup- 
port and help his parents ; but Alexis had not 
told him all, and, like Noah’s dutiful son, he had 
cast a veil over his father’s errors. Old Peter 
Lanrey had heard some ugly rumors through 
Gussy ’s letters and Grenouillard’s garrulous hints ; 
but he attributed as much to Gussy ’s natural 
venom as to the imperfection of the correspon- 
dence itself. He knew that the Didiers were in 
bad circumstances, and that Anatole had been 
somewhat led away by the machinations of that 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


147 


arrant scoundrel, Jacotot ; but he had no idea of 
Didier’s miserable degradation, his reckless and 
profuse expenditure, the shamelessness of his life, 
and the abject misery it entailed on his family, 
Alexis had determined to keep these details 
secret, at any cost to himself, and Father Lanrey's 
loving offers could thus be of little avail to him. 

Gussy, in his mean hatred, had told all he knew, 
but he was himself unacquainted with many de- 
tails concerning the Didiers. In a later letter he 
had wisely kept his own counsel about the loan 
and mortgage, and he had his own cogent rea- 
sons for so doing. The young fellow watched 
his debtor as a hawk his prey, and we shall see 
how nicely he had calculated his plans. 

Lanrey's letter cut Alexis to the heart. The 
kind feeling it evinced, the tried friendship of 
the old man, his eagerness to see him married to 
his daughter, and the thought that Georgie, faith- 
ful to his memory, was as ready to take him for 
her husband as she had been in better times, all 
combined to make a powerful impression upon 
him, and to reopen the wounds in his poor 
torn heart. He fell into a profound melanchoty, 
which was the more dangerous because of his 
earnest wish to conceal his feelings, that he might 
not add to his mother's and sister’s grief. He 
held firmly to his resolution, and would not allow 
himself to think twice about it ; his duty seemed 
so plainly marked out before him, even by the 
very words in which he had couched his renun- 
ciation. As soon as he felt able, he again wrote 
to Lanrey, not to combat the latter’s objections, 
but to renew his own proposal. 


148 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


My resolve is unalterable/' he said ; the only 
kindness you can do me is by not trying to shake 
it. Death alone can release me from the duty to 
which I have devoted myself, unless circum- 
stances should change for the better. This is not 
likely ; scarcely possible." 

The Didiers' position grew worse day by day; 
the hour of trial was drawing near when the poor 
family should be trodden under foot by adversity, 
even as the grape is trodden in the wine-press. 
Starvation and nakedness, and, most likely, sick- 
ness, the natural consequences of a want of work, 
or of work insufficiently paid — threatened their 
garret home. All their efforts to keep away the 
ghastly spectre were in vain, and Alexis at last, 
collecting his energies, determined to have a se- 
rious explanation with his father on the subject 
of returning to Vallombreux. 

One evening when they two were alone, and 
Didier was peevishly complaining of the bad 
lodgings, coarse food, and general difficulty of 
getting a livelihood in Paris, Alexis seized his 
opportunity and began, 

“ Are there no other means of getting out of 
our difficulties, father, except those we have al- 
ready tried ?" 

Anatole seemed surprised, and looked fixedly 
at his son, as if he could not quite fathom his 
meaning. He answered guardedly. 

Do j/ou know of any other ? And if so, 
what may it be ?" 

“ I think we have one resource left yet, and 
perhaps the best of all." 

What do you mean ?" 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


149 


“ There is a path that will lead us to a kind 
of work, of which we may be absolutely sure.’' 

I thought you had told me that you had 
given up all hopes of finding any lucrative 
work ?" 

Yes, and it is true ; but I have since thought 
that we might do better for ourselves than hang 
on here in this miserable way." 

Explain yourself," said Anatole, apparently 
moved by some strong feeling. 

“We were not so wretched before we left our 
dear home." 

“ H'm !" said Didier, who could hardly affect 
to misunderstand his son. “ That is according to 
taste." 

“ I contend," said the youth undauntedly, 
“that we were better off then than now." 

“ Suppose it true," said his father, whose 
cheeks began to blaze, “ it does not follow that 
we should be happy there now." 

“ I think, father, that the prospect of a quiet 
life there, should be a sufficient inducement to us 
to return." 

Didier sprang to his feet, his cheeks no longer 
purple, but livid, his eyes flashing. 

“Never speak to me of Vallombreux again," 
he cried, beside himself ; “ I will never go back, 
even if I must die in the gutter here." 

Alexis tried to insist upon this means, but his 
father yelled out an imperious command to hold 
his tongue ; then said hoarsely as if to himself, 

“We should be more miserable at home than 
we are here ; shame would be added to penury . . 
but you can not know . . never speak to 


ISO 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


me again of Vallombreux ; I can’t bear to hear 
the name !” 

Alexis was fated to know a little later what 
caused his father’s abhorrence of the name of 
Vallombreux ; for there was more in it' than the 
mere pleasure he now found in Paris life. Didier 
left the room in great agitation, while his son, 
unable to understand what he had heard, gave 
himself up into God’s hands, having nothing fur- 
ther to hope at the hands of man. 


XIII. 

The Hospital. 

One evening in August, just at nightfall, 
Alexis came home from the work-shop, but had 
scarcely sat down by his mother and sister, when 
a strange noise was heard on the stairs, and the 
shuffling of feet, as of men bearing a heavy 
burden, came to a stand-still outside the garret- 
door. A loud knock at the door caused Alexis 
to go and see what it was : but he started 
back in dismay as he saw two men carrying a 
body which he at once recognized as that of his 
father. He gave one cry of terror, his mother 
and sister rushed tremblingly forward, and stood 
equally rooted to the spot with horror at the 
dreadful sight. Anatole was motionless, and the 
bloodless, livid cheeks were as those of a corpse. 
He was only unconscious, but they naturally 
feared the worst. Alexis recovered himself, 
helped the men to lay his father on his pallet, and 
began to examine the wounds. Didier’s head 
was wrapped in blood-stained cloths, and his 
clothes bore traces of mud and blood. As the 
women stood gazing at him in terror, speechless 
and helpless, one of the men, guessing their mis- 
take, said, 


152 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

He is not dead ; don't distress yourselves so. 
He will come to his senses after a few hours' rest, 
and probably get well again." 

These words assuaged the women's grief, and 
both they and Alexis inwardly thanked God that 
the unhappy man had not been cut off without 
time being given him to repent. 

What happened to my father ?" asked Alex- 
is of one of the men. 

He was lying in Brittany street," said the 
man, ‘‘just as you see him now, when we picked 
him up." 

“ How could he have got hurt in this way ? 
It must be serious, to judge by the quantity of 
blood he has lost." 

“ I expect he must have turned giddy and 
stumbled. His head seemed to have fallen on 
the curb-stone, the edge of which made a deep 
wound, as you see ; the loss of blood alone was 
enough to weaken him ; and we took him to a 
druggist, who bound the wound, and stopped 
the flow of blood. He bade us take him home, 
and be very careful how we carried him. We 
found a paper in his pocket with his address ; 
you see as well as I do that his state is very 
precarious." 

“ But," said Alexis, “ we shall want a doctor, 
and how are we to get one ? we are so poor." 

“ I will tell you how to set about it," said one 
of the men, who seemed much moved ; “ the best 
advice I can give you is to take your father to 
the hospital as soon as possible." 

“ To the hospital !" cried Jane and her chil- 
dren in one breath. “ What an idea !" 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


153 


“ And why not resumed the man kindly. 

He will be better there than anywhere ; he will 
be well cared for, and attended by skillful physi- 
cians. If he has a chance of recovery, it is there 
he will find it.'' 

The poor family soon saw the truth of the 
man's argument ; but as it was too late to think 
of shifting him, they were obliged to wait till 
the next morning. Jane and her children warm- 
ly thanked the kind-hearted workmen who had 
brought him home, and told them how grieved 
they were that they had no better means of 
showing their gratitude. 

Anatole came to his senses two hours later, 
but was seized with delirium as soon as he woke 
to consciousness. He knew no one, and passed 
a restless night ; now he would try to throw 
himself off his bed, now he swore terrible oaths 
against Zebedee Jacotot. His mind sometimes 
wandered to the scenes of their old home-life at 
Vallombreux, and he would call on Jane, Alexis, 
and, above all, on Catherine ; but when the young 
girl leaned gently over him, he only looked scar- 
ed and pushed her away, mistaking her for a 
stranger. 

As soon as day dawned, Alexis went to the 
police-station, and got the necessary certificate 
for his father's admission into the hospital. At 
nine o'clock a stretcher was brought, and the 
wounded man was taken to the great Hospital of 
Paris, the Hotel Dieu, or God's Inny Alexis was 
allowed to enter the ward, and crossed, with a 
beating heart, the immense space, filled with 
rows of beds, each occupied by some victim of 


154 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


sin or disease. Having seen his father placed in 
one of the numbered couches which public cha- 
rity offers to the unfortunate among the poor, 
Alexis had to leave him to the care of stran- 
gers. 

Sunday and Thursday are set apart as visit- 
ing days at this hospital, and as Didier had been 
taken there on a Wednesday, his wife and chil- 
dren went to see him next day at the appointed 
time. He was no longer delirious, but was suf- 
fering acutely, while in the intervals between 
these paroxysms he generally fell back into an 
ominous state of lethargy. He knew his family, 
and held out his arms appealingly toward them, 
while hot tears rolled down his cheeks. Jane 
kissed him tenderly, sobbing the while, and her 
children were not less affected. The interview 
was at first sadly solemn ; no one spoke, but all 
wept in concert. Didier was the first to break 
the silence. 

It is I,’' he said, who have caused all your 
troubles ; for it was I who tore you from your 
home, your friends, and your sweet, healthy oc- 
cupation, and plunged you in this sink of iniqui- 
ty, Paris. My pride and ambition first, then my 
accursed pleasures, have ruined you. It is my 
Avorst torment to think of this.'' 

The wretched man covered his face with his 
hands. 

Dearest," said Jane, smothering her grief, 
‘‘ do not think of the past ; do not sorrow for 
what can not be helped. Never mind it, for we 
will always love you as much as we did before." 

I know you are all too good ; your goodness 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 155 

even makes you control the disgust you feel at 
my evil doings.'' 

Do not speak so, dear," said his wife, ‘‘ if you 
do not wish to break our hearts. Believe me, 
our love and devotion are yours the same as 
ever." 

God keep you from ever knowing the re- 
morse of conscience which I feel. My punish- 
ment is a hard one, but justly deserved : I feel I 
shall die." 

'' No, father, no," said Catherine, kissing his 
hands ; ‘‘ you will not die ; you will get better 
again, and we shall go home to Vallombreux, and 
be as happy as we can all wish to be." 

Vallombreux !" said Didier, dwelling ten- 
derly on the name that was to him the synonym 
both of regret and of despair. Vallombreux ! 
I shall never see it more, never look on the old 
church steeple, nor the house where you were 
born and where we were all so happy ! Alas ! 
how quickly those years went by ! I shall never 
see our green fields, our fragrant, shady woods, 
where the birds sing so sweetly — never breathe 
the bracing air of our hills again. It is all over, 
and I must die." 

Alexis tried to turn his father's thoughts to 
more cheerful subjects, but could get nothing 
but serious answers, such as this : No, no ; 

my fate is settled. I shall never leave this bed 
of pain. Death will be a boon to me under the 
present circumstances of my life." 

Seeing that Anatole was possessed with the 
belief of his approaching end, and knowing from 
the doctor and the nurse that his state was so 


156 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


critical as to be well-nigh hopeless, Jane endea- 
vored to suggest another train of thought to the 
sick man. 

Dearest,'' she began gently, as she took his 
hands within her own and pressed them to her 
bosom, God is good and merciful ; what man 
refuses. He can grant, and your confidence must 
be in Him." 

God !" said the sick man, I have abandoned 
Him, insulted Him, cursed Him." 

‘^Well, He will take the first step toward 
reconciliation ; He will meet you half-way." 

Alas !" sighed Didier, what can I do in my 
present state ?" 

You must see a priest, dear," gently sug- 
gested his good wife. 

The patient was silent and moved uneasily in 
his bed. Catherine, fearing lest, at the last mo- 
ment, another fit of obstinacy might seize him, 
bent forward and whispered in his ear. 

Father, you will not deny us the happiness 
of seeing you at peace with God." 

No," said Anatole, there is nothing I would 
not do now to please you ; I have done you 
enough harm not to wish to repair it in some 
way." 

And true to his word, he gladly welcomed 
the priest, who was immediately sent for ; he 
made his confession and humbly received absolu- 
tion, his heart meanwhile full of resignation and 
gratitude for God's mercies. His religious feel- 
ings took their old hold upon his soul at this 
solemn moment ; his faith was a supreme comfort 
to him ; death he accepted as a just chastisement 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


157 


of his sins ; and lastly he prayed to God to spare 
his family from any further effects of his own 
misguided conduct. His wife and children came 
again on the following Sunday, having counted 
the very minutes during that weary interval. 
Anatole was dying as they arrived, but he was 
conscious, and welcomed them lovingly. He 
smiled upon each of them, embraced them one 
after the other, begged them in a dying whisper 
to forgive him the evils he had heaped upon 
them, and above all to remember him in their 
prayers when he should be gone from them. He 
had received the last sacraments that morning, to 
the great edification of all who had been present 
at the awful ceremony. He told his wife and 
children that he was resigned, nay, glad to die, 
and hoped to meet them in heaven, where he 
trusted to go some day. He breathed his last in 
perfect peace, comforted and strengthened by 
the presence of those whom he so dearly loved, 
though for a time he had so cruelly ill-treated 
them. Alexis closed his father’s eyes, and knelt 
for a moment by the death-bed with his mother 
and sister ; then all three left the place, calm 
even in the midst of their terrible desolation ; for 
the hope of the Christian was ever before their 
eyes. 

When he had taken the women home, Alexis 
returned to the hospital to make arrangements 
for the funeral. He had to use the very last 
resources of his wretched purse to rescue his 
father’s body from the dissection-knife ; but this 
was cheerfully done, and the funeral, a decent 
though a poor one, took place the following 


158 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


Tuesday. The hospital chaplain said a low mass 
for the repose of the soul of Anatole Didier, and 
the body was then taken in a poor hearse to the 
great cemetery of Pere la Chaise, Here a new 
grief awaited the poor bereaved family ; Ana- 
tole's body was lowered into the paupers’ pit 
(his son not being able to defray the expenses 
of a separate grave), and there, in the midst of 
thousands of unknown and unclaimed dead, it 
was laid to await the final resurrection on the 
last day. So it chanced that the unhappy man 
who had hoped to gain a rapid fortune in the 
capital, was not even able to command what the 
meanest peasant may look forward to as a cer- 
tainty, a separate grave and a fair record of his 
name and condition ! 

This dreary sight cut Jane and her children 
to the heart, and much increased their natural 
grief. They gave full vent to their sorrow on 
their return to their poor garret ; the thought 
that he whom they loved and whom they had 
just consigned to his last resting-place, would 
soon lose all appearance of identity, was a sore 
trouble to their hearts. In a country village, 
where the dead sleep under the shadow of the 
church steeple, they almost seem to lie within 
sight of their friends, and the parting is ren- 
dered less cruel by the symbol of hope planted 
over the funeral mound (the cross which in 
Catholic countries everywhere replaces the sim- 
ple head-stone); but in great cities, where the 
departed are buried outside the walls that hem 
in the living, they seem, as it were, doubly dead 
to those whom they leave behind. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


159 


Such were the first bitter thoughts that dis- 
turbed the peace of Didier’s widow and children ; 
but they were soon forced to think of their own 
future. Their first impulse was to go home ; the 
thought occurred to them at once, and was 
spoken of as the only comfort left them in their 
bereavement. No doubt, so they argued, they 
would find their old house as they left it, their 
fruitful fields and garden, and, if not the old hap- 
piness, at least peace and security and kindly 
human sympathy. Alexis tried to stifle another 
thought that thrust itself upon his imagination, 
but which he judged unworthy of the solemn?, 
frame of mind requisite at the present time of 
mourning. He was ashamed of any personal 
feeling coming uppermost in his mind; but the 
thought of Georgie, whose hand in marriage he 
had so generously given up, would intrude itself 
upon him ; he fancied he saw her in her maiden 
bashfulness, still ready, since Providence had so 
unexpectedly changed his circumstances, to take 
him for her husband, for better, for worse.'' 

The Didiers were talking over their prospects 
and the means necessary for going home, when a 
loud knock at the door startled them from their 
meditation. Alexis opened the door and found 
Gussy standing before him. The young boor 
bowed clumsily enough, and sat down, staring at 
Jane and Catherine in that foolish yet cunning 
way which was peculiar to him. The Didiers 
gave him credit at first for a kindly feeling of com- 
passion that had prompted him to condole with 
them on the loss they had just sustained ; but 


l6o THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

they were soon undeceived. Gussy, having taken 
his fill of staring, began his usual phraseology. 

So I hear your father has ^ kicked the 
bucket,' eh?" 

No one answered him, but however unbecom- 
ing were his words, no one was offended ; they 
knew Gussy of old, and were used to any thing 
but refinement in the choice of his expressions. 
The visitor saw that his hosts waited his explana- 
tion, and resumed. 

That's not all I came for, and it is no use 
losing time ; let us come to business." 

» What business ?" said Alexis, in surprise. 

Do you mean to tell me you don’t know ? 
Did the old fox say nothing to you about it ?" 

Of whom are you speaking?" cried Alexis 
indignantly. 

Why, of your father, to be sure, the rogue 
who runs away without paying his debts ! He 
wanted, I suppose, to laugh in his sleeve at you 
all, even after he was gone!" 

I beg you will choose a more seeml)^ way of 
speaking. Gussy," cried Alexis, fairly beside him- 
self. My father is only just- dead ; we are all 
in the deepest grief, and scarcely in a fit state to 
listen to such language as you have used." 

What do I care ?" said the young boor ; I 
lent your father money, and I want it back. I 
understand nothing and care for nothing but my 
money, and I mean to have it." 

The unhappy family began to perceive that 
their troubles were as yet far from ended. An 
abyss seemed to open at their very feet, and 
terrible suspicions as to the manner in which 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. l6l 

Anatole had found money for his dissipations 
crowded on their minds. Alexis answered in a 
changed and tremulous tone, 

How much did my father owe you ?” 

He borrowed altogether four thousand francs 
of me, in sterling gold.” 

The youth grew pale, and his mother and sis- 
ter could hardly contain their grief. 

Have you any deeds relating to the transac- 
tion ?” said Alexis again, making an effort at self- 
control. 

I should think so,” chuckled Gussy, as he 
took from his pocket a paper, duly drawn up 
according to law, levying a mortgage on the 
possessions of Anatole Didier, for the benefit of 
Gussy Lesprit, in case the former did not or 
could not repay the sum borrowed, at whatever 
time the latter should see fit to call for it. 

This last clause showed the cunning of the 
young usurer, and the imprudence of the 
wretched Anatole, who had thus put himself 
completely in his creditor s power. The con- 
dition revealed a deeply-laid plan. Gussy had 
indeed been content with the lawful rate of 
interest, three per cent; but he knew that it 
would not be long before Didier’s position would 
be utterly beyond redemption, and whenever 
that fatal moment came, he designed to pounce 
upon his debtor and demand payment. In de- 
fault of this, he meant to have his victim’s Val- 
lombreux possessions sold by decree of the court, 
in which case they would be sure to go at a very 
low price. Gussy had already told his father to 
be ready to buy in the land in his (Gussy’s) name. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


162 

This was why the young fellow had been so 
accommodating as to the rate of interest on his 
loan. 

My dear Gussy/’ said Jane, when she had 
carefully looked over the deed, you see our un- 
fortunate position ; trouble comes hard just now ; 
give us time to look about us.” 

Gussy gave no direct answer, but seemed 
willing to think about Jane’s proposal. She took 
courage and resumed, 

Alexis and Catherine will marry, and if 
they make good matches, which I have every 
reason to believe, we can make prompt arrange- 
ments for the payment of this debt.” 

I prefer not waiting so long,” said Gussy 
coldly ; I should in fact, prefer being paid ‘ on 
the nail.’ I have my reasons, which I am not 
bound to tell you.” 

But don’t you see that you are taking us 
unawares. We are yery poor, work is scarce, 
or it is badly paid : what can we do just at 
present ?” 

‘‘ That is just the reason why I can not depend 
on your promises.” 

Our hopes for the future,” persisted Jane, 
are at least secure.” 

'' And what are they ?” said the rough fellow 
with a kind of idiotic curiosity. 

'' Alexis was engaged to Georgie Lanrey be- 
fore we left home ; circumstances put off the 
wedding at first ; then our Paris life began to 
form a serious obstacle to it ; but that has now 
been removed, and we are going to Vallombreux 
at once.” 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


163 

What do I care for that?'' growled Gussy. 

“ Have patience, and you will see that you 
have nothing to fear. Alexis will marry Geor- 
gie ; and besides that, Joseph Lanrey has asked 
Catherine's hand in marriage : we shall thus 
have a double portion at our disposal; and I 
know that Father Lanrey will consent to our 
using a part of it to pay our debts. You see 
we shall soon be in different and better cir- 
cumstances." 

I have heard from home, too," said Gussy, 
and know just the worth of your expectations." 

If you have heard the truth, it must tally 
with what I have said," answered Jane. 

‘‘ My news is true enough," said Gussy; ‘^but 
it tells me that you are nursing false hopes." 

How is that ? What do you mean ?" said 
Jane and Alexis in one breath. 

‘‘ I know things of which you are evidently 
unaware, or you would not have said what you 
did a little while ago." 

“ What is it you know, then ?" asked the mo- 
ther, frightened by Gussy's sullenly triumphant 
look. 

There was a wedding, a month ago, at old 
Lanrey's ; one of his children was married." 

Here Gussy paused, gloating over the pain 
he knew he was causing his hosts. Jane alone 
had the courage to ask any further questions. 

“ Which was it?" she said« 

His daughter Georgie," said Gussie. 

Alexis grew pale as a sheet ; for though he 
had openly given up his last hope of his bride, 
yet a secret feeling had lurked in his heart, 


164 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


urging him to trust in the intervention of cir- 
cumstances in his favor. His father’s death had 
released him from his self-imposed duty ; but 
Gussy’s words had now rudely extinguished this 
new-born hope. 

Father Lanrey had been sadly perplexed by 
Alexis’s persistent refusal to renew his engage- 
ment. He waited several months ; but unwilling 
needlessly to sacrifice his daughter’s future, and 
aware that the attachment on Georgie’s side was 
not so passionate as on Alexis’s, he spoke to her 
of another suitor. Georgie, though sorry for 
Alexis, whom she loved as a dear brother and 
playmate, saw the disadvantages involved in a 
precarious engagement, and listened with defer- 
ence to her father’s advice. The young man 
who had asked for her hand was well known 
throughout the neighborhood as irreproachable 
in his morals and sound in his faith — an honest, 
earnest youth, quite capable of making a good 
woman happy. The marriage therefore took 
place, as Gussy had said. 

As for Joseph Lanrey, though his father had 
asked him to follow his sister’s example and 
choose another bride, he firmly and respectfully 
declined, saying that he would wait any time 
for Catherine ; and that if she could never be 
his, he would remain unmarried for her sake. 
Lanrey did not try to combat his son’s resolu- 
tion, and, indeed, did honor to the good feeling 
which prompted it. Such was the state of 
things at Vallombreux, when Gussy so brutally 
obtruded himself on Anatole’s desolate family, 
the evening after his funeral. Apparently satis- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


165 


fied with the painful impression he had made, he 
was silent for a few minutes, and then resumed. 
So you can not pay me ? That is all you 
have to say to me?’' 

‘‘You know well enough. Gussy, that it is 
out of our power to do so,” said Alexis, whose 
passions were rising. “ Was it on purpose that 
)'Ou chose the very moment of our deepest 
sorrow, to come and torment us ?” 

“ Why, as to that,” mumbled Gussy, “ every 
man knows his own business, and has to look 
after his own interest as best he can. If you 
can not pay me, I must know it, so that I can 
take measures accordingly.” 

“ What will you do ? Will you be cruel 
enough to give us no alternative?” 

“ My money is secured on your father’s 
property, of which you are now the master, 
and my own course is plain enough : I shall 
sell you out.” 

“ Would you really have the heart to treat 
your own townsfolk so ?” cried Jane, in despair. 
“ I can not believe it of you. Gussy ; you are 
trying to frighten us.” 

“ Well,” said the boor, “ you know I can 
not afford to lose the fruits of my labor. It is 
useless to discuss the matter. I tell you that if 
I am not paid my money within a week from 
to-day, I shall have your property sold.” 

And Gussy rose and left the room, without 
giving himself the trouble to bow to its occu- 
pants or perform any act of parting civility. 


XIV. 


A True Friend. 

Gussy kept his word. Unfeeling and utterly 
warped, his nature was proof against the 
slightest suggestion of generosity ; no tear had 
ever dimmed his eye, and as he had said himself, 
money was all he cared about. He caused the 
sale to take place at the end of the week, and 
Grenouillard, acting for his son, prepared himself 
to second his cruel design. 

On the day of the auction, however, he was 
sadly disappointed to find an unexpected compe- 
titor appear before the proper authorities, a man 
perfectly capable of outgeneraling Grenouil- 
lard, even had the latter been reinforced by his 
son in person. Peter Lanrey, guessing the 
young fellow's unworthy motive, determined to 
spoil his game by appearing in the field as 
a purchaser. Grenouillard felt detected, and 
feared that his cunning would be soon unmasked : 
he had not much room left for doubt when once 
the sale had begun ; for Lanrey obstinately 
over-bid him, while the many spectators at the 
sale, understanding the circumstances, abstained 
through sympathy for the Didiers, from taking 
any part in the transaction. They watched the 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


167 


singular duel of words with great interest, until 
at last Lanrey managed to bring the bids up to 
the standard of the little property's real worth, 
so that instead of four thousand francs, a sum 
which the two misers thought the utmost limit 
likely to be reached, eight thousand were rea- 
lized by the sale. Half of this sum was thus 
rescued for the use of the widow and children. 

A letter from Lanrey brought this news to 
the bereaved family : the old man told them 
what he had done, and asked what disposition 
they wished to be made of the sum that fell to 
their share. He added that his feelings toward 
them were ever the same, that he loved them all 
as his own children, and that he wished for noth- 
ing more than for their speedy return to their 
old home. 

These proofs of true and devoted friendship 
were balm to the hearts of the three unfortu- 
nates, but it was nevertheless a poignant grief 
to them to know that they no longer owned a 
foot of ground in their native village, not a stone 
on which to lay their heads. Their dear cottage, 
so loved and so lamented, was no longer their 
own, though it was some consolation to remem- 
ber how the wicked plans of their pitiless young 
creditor had been outwitted, and that their 
property had at least passed into friendly hands. 
Jane wrote to Lanrey to thank him for his disin- 
terested friendship, and to beg him to send her 
a few hundred francs on account, and to be her 
banker for the rest until she had made some more 
definite arrangement. 

She then consulted with her children what 


1 68 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

course it was best to pursue. They sadly deter- 
mined not to go home now : what could they do 
there, with so little to depend upon as they now 
had ? They dreaded being thrown on the parish 
for support, and thought that, of the two evils, a 
prolonged stay in Paris was just at present, the 
least. They hoped to be able, by dint of eco- 
nomy and hard work, to support themselves 
decently, and, buoyed up by the excitement, as it 
were, of making a new experiment, they set to 
work with such ardor that they actually succeed- 
ed in deceiving themselves as to their ability to 
'‘fight the wolf.'’ Jane and Catherine, still busy 
with their sewing, earned, it is true, but little; 
still, so frugally did they live that that little 
was sufficient for their daily wants, and Alexis’s 
wages thus remained as a fund to be drawn upon 
only in an emergency. The brave boy nobly 
resigned himself to the unpleasant task to which 
necessity condemned him at the work-shop, and 
did his best to forget the past. His twin hopes 
of marrying Georgie, and returning in peace to 
Vallombreux, were gone forever, and he now con- 
fined himself to making plans tending to his 
mother’s and sister’s comfort, the sole interest 
left him on earth. Still his heart would not be 
comforted, and he could not always conceal his 
sadness from those whom he loved. This secret 
grief prayed upon him by degrees, till his 
originally strong constitution gave way, after a 
few months, under the terrible pressure of moral 
anxiety. When spring came, his health declined 
all too visibly, his cheeks were pale and hollow, a 
dark circle began to show round his sunken eyes, 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


169 


his figure bent painfully forward like a sapling 
lashed by the wind, and a hoarse cough racked 
his chest. He tried for a little while to deceive 
his mother and sister, and even himself, as to the 
extent of the malady ; but the day soon came 
when the truth could no longer be disguised, 
He came home one evening, wearied to death, 
dragging himself painfully along, and gasping 
for breath ; he had been feverish for three weeks 
past, and yet had persisted in working as if noth- 
ing had been the matter, thus hastening his end. 
At last he fell exhausted, as the soldier falls on 
the battle-field ; God had doubtless shortened 
the time of his trial, finding him ripe for heaven. 
Alexis took to his bed that night, and never left 
it alive. He refused to go to the hospital, not- 
withstanding his mother's, arguments that he 
might recover if placed under proper treatment, 
and contented himself with his mother’s and 
sister’s nursing and the parish doctor’s care. 

^^Your dear presence,” he said to Jane and 
Catherine, does me more good than all the doc- 
tors and the drugs in the world could do. Why 
should I leave this room ? I am quite comfortable 
here with you two, who love me so tenderly, and 
whom, next to God, I too love best. The very 
sight of you is a solace to my eyes, and balm to 
my sufferings.” 

The two women, hearing his gentle words, 
uttered in so loving a tone, fall upon their ears 
like a knell, could not forbear crying, and his 
tears soon mingled with their own. The hospital 
was thenceforward never again spoken of, which 
seemed to relieve him of some degree of anxiety. 


I/O THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

‘‘ I should die of grief/’ he would say, if I 
were alone, or among strangers.” 

His sickness progressed rapidly, his lungs 
were so oppressed as scarcely to allow him to 
draw a free breath, and his racking cough aggra- 
vated every other symptom, and threatened a 
speedy end for the gentle patient. Alexis under- 
stood how precarious was his state of health, and 
gave up all hopes of recovery ; death was to him 
the welcome harbinger of freedom. One morn- 
ing, when his mother alone was watching by his 
bed-side, after sitting up with him all night, he 
said, as he gazed tenderly at her haggard, worn 
face, Mother, there is some one whom I should 
very much like to see.” 

Who is it, darling?” said Jane. I will do 
any thing I can to please you.” 

Don’t be frightened, mother dear, but I 
should like to see a priest.” 

Whom shall I send for, dear ?” answered the 
mother, trying to hide her tears. 

The priest who has been my confessor since 
we first came to Paris.” 

This priest belonged to the parish of St. Am- 
brose, and Jane promised to send for him that 
very day. As soon as Catherine came home, 
Jane went herself to St. Ambrose’s church, and 
called the priest, who accompanied her to her 
home. 

Father,” said Alexis, as he entered, I am so 
happy to see you ; I was very anxious to get your 
help, for I feel that I need it.” 

My dear friend,” said the young priest, 
pressing the patient’s hands between his own. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


I71 


“you are young, and Nature can work miracles. 
God will let you recover yet.’' 

Alexis shook his head and smiled ; then when 
his mother and sister left him with his spiritual 
adviser, he said, “ I should not feel sorry to die 
were it not for the grief my death will cause those 
two angels in human shape, my mother and sister, 
whom God has crushed with bitter trials, no doubt 
to make their souls holier yet, and their merits for 
the next world greater. “ But,” he added, after 
a pause, “ if I go to heaven, as I hope to do, I 
shall pray for them at every moment, and shall 
thus be more useful to them than I can now be 
here below.” 

The priest, deeply moved by such faith and 
resignation to the will of God, no longer urged 
the unlikely chance of recovery, and applied him- 
self to prepare the youth’s soul for death. It was 
no difficult task ; for Alexis was ready, though 
still in the flower of his manhood, to relinquish 
the cup of earthly joys of which he had hardly 
tasted as yet. The priest came again several 
times, and greatly comforted the patient, to whom, 
a few days later, he administered the last sacra- 
ments. Alexis received these divine favors with 
the fervor of an angel, and, for several hours 
afterward, fixed his thoughts upon his approach- 
ing happiness in seeing God face to face, only 
interrupting his aspirations toward his heavenly 
Fatherland to address a few words of gentle com- 
fort to his mother and sister. 

“ I am only going beforehand,” he would say, 
“ and who knows but what, in a few years, nay, 
perhaps only months, we may meet again ? I 


172 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


shall wait for you in heaven, where joys abound 
without end, where all tears are wiped away, and 
the sorrows of earth are turned into crowns of 
glory. I shall beg of God to take yovi by the 
hand and lead you to our old home at Vallom- 
breux. Oh !” he cried, clasping his hands, 
how sweetly I could rest under the shadow of 
our village steeple ; but Thy will be done, O my 
God!’^ 

Alexis died one spring morning, just about 
dawn, with a smile on his lips and his eyes fixed 
lovingly on the crucifix. There was no effort, 
no convulsion ; he lay quietly in the arms of his 
mother and sister, and gave up his soul to his 
Maker, as one who rather longed for than shrank 
from death. Those who saw him after his death 
said that the wonderful peace on his rigid fea- 
tures was an earnest of the immortal blessedness 
he was gone to enjoy, and that his soul, bathed 
in heavenly delights, shed a faint reflection of 
those joys on the poor body it had just left. 

We can not pretend to describe the grief that 
took possession of Jane and Catherine ; God 
alone, who bound up their broken hearts, knew 
what anguish they suffered in this new hour 
of heavy trial. His help gave them the strength 
they needed. They used the money which Lanrey 
had sent them to buy a separate grave for Alexis, 
that there might remain at least a memento of 
him above-ground, and that the narro.w space al- 
lotted to him in his last rest might not be invaded 
by the bodies of strangers. Every Sunday, the 
two women went there to pray and place a few 
modest flowers on the grave. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


173 


They still determined to live in Paris, and 
through their scrupulous economy and ceaseless 
work, managed to keep themselves for a while. 
But bodily strength is not inexhaustible, and Jane, 
whose far from robust health had withstood so 
many shocks, now seemed to falter a little be- 
neath the burden. Her faith and her energy 
both supported her frail body at first ; but her 
daughter, seeing her suddenly grow pale or turn 
giddy for a moment, was terribly frightened, and 
would beg her to take a little rest, and husband 
her strength, were it only for her child’s sake. 
Jane, however, would smile sadly, and answer, 

‘‘ It is nothing, dear child ; it will pass away, 
do not fear.” 

These words only half quieted the girl’s fears. 
Her mother was all she had left on earth, and she 
dreaded to lose her as she had already lost her 
brother. Jane was deceiving even herself ; but 
it was not long ere it grew impossible to hide 
the progress of the disease, a slow and sure de- 
cline, which was draining the very life-blood from 
her heart. She was forced to leave off work, 
notwithstanding the dire necessity which had 
compelled them to work without ceasing since 
Alexis’s death ; and soon after, she even had to 
take to her bed. Then anxiety about her daugh- 
ter’s future pressed heavily on her mind, and put, 
as it were, the finishing stroke to her sufferings. 
Night and day the thought of Catherine left 
alone in the great city haunted her imagination. 
How would the girl live, who would protect and 
comfort her ? And to these questions Jane could 
find no satisfactory answer. After several days 


174 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


of this painful uncertainty and a mature weigh- 
ing of the pros and cons, the mother turned her 
thoughts once more toward Vallombreux, and 
remembered the good man who had so repeated- 
1)^ offered them his services, the true Christian 
who had shrunk from no trouble when he found 
an act of kindness to be yet in his power. She 
finally determined to address herself to Father 
Lanrey, begging him to become the confident of 
her inmost wishes, and the executor of her last 
dispositions. She asked for pen, ink, and paper, 
and, with a trembling, feverish hand, wrote the 
few following lines : 

'' My good Father Lanrey : It is now my 
turn to be ill — in fact, dying. Come to me if you 
can, and advise me what to do touching my poor 
child.’' 

Catherine posted this short letter, and three 
days later the good old man knocked at the door 
of their wretched garret. His heart bled as he 
noticed the evident poverty which the room at- 
tested, and he went up, speechless with compas- 
sion, to the sick woman’s bed, holding out his 
hands to her. Jane, her face radiant with joy, 
tried to raise herself on her pillow, and twining 
her arms round the old man’s neck, while her 
head rested against his shoulder, she murmured, 
Thanks, thanks. Father Lanrey ; you are 
truly a father to me. God bless you for having 
so soon answered my call, and reward you for 
the good your sight does to my poor heart.” 

She burst into tears as she spoke, and held 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


175 


the old man's hands fast within her own. He 
laid her gently back on her pillow, where she 
remained for a few moments, perfectly passive, 
weakened by the burst of emotion she had just 
gone through. Lanrey sat down by her, saying. 

Try to be quiet, Jane dear ; we will have a 
long talk when you are strong again." 

Catherine, coming into the room, started in 
amazement to see Lanrey, and, running to him, 
caught his hands, while he tenderly called her 
his own dear daughter. The sick woman was 
a little less excited now, and Lanrey began thus 
chidingly, 

** Jane, you have not acted fairly by me." 

The poor thing looked doubtingly at him, try- 
ing to fathom his meaning. 

I mean," he resumed, that you did not tell 
me enough of your affairs. If you had let me 
know your circumstances more in detail, I should 
have been able to spare you much of what you 
have gone through." 

“ All that happened to us was permitted by 
God, to try us," said Jane. Blessed be His 
name !" 

True, and such are the feelings that should 
animate every good Christian, and so I will say 
nothing of the past save this, that I deeply sym- 
pathize with you in every trouble you have 
undergone." 

I know your kind heart," said the sick wo- 
man, '' and believe me, I am grateful for every 
mark of affection you have so lavishly bestowed 
upon us." 

'' My dear child," said Lanrey, I shall not 


iy6 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


leave you again, and when you get better, you 
and Catherine shall come down with me to Val- 
lombreux/’ 

Ah !” said Jane, with tears in her eyes^ I 
shall never see Vallombreux again. Besides, 
what should we do there now, when we no long- 
er possess a foot of ground in our native 
place 

‘‘ You have friends, Jane, and that is not to be 
despised ; for is not true sympathy a better boon 
than mere riches ? I need not tell you that your 
place in my own house is ready for you.'’ 

The sick woman was silent and thoughtful. 

Jane,” resumed the old man, I came here 
for a double reason : first, because you called me 
to you ; secondly, because I have a great favor 
to ask of you.” 

A favor from me ! Father Lanrey, you 
can not mean it ; what can I do for you in the 
state I am in !” 

You can do much,” answered Lanrey, both 
for me and for my son Joseph. I want you to 
give him Catherine for his wife, that she may be- 
come my daughter in good earnest.” 

Can it be possible ?” faltered the poor mo- 
ther, and do not our misfortunes and our po- 
verty deter you ?” 

My son has enough for both, and his tastes 
are as moderate as his ambition. He loves Ca- 
therine dearly, and he will marry no one but her. 
Will you give your consent, Jane ?” 

The mother silently pressed the old man’s 
hand, while Catherine stood motionless, with 
downcast eyes. 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


177 


Catherine/’ said Lanrey, will you take 
Joseph for your husband ?” 

My mother’s will is mine,” said the girl. 

A ray of joy brightened the wretched house- 
hold, which had tasted so little in all its Paris 
experience. Peter Lanrey’s soothing presence, 
his kind assurances, and, above all, the thought 
that Catherine’s future happiness was now secure, 
all contributed to raise Jane’s spirits. The good 
old man had perceived the moral anxieties which 
oppressed the poor woman’s heart, and with true 
and prompt insight, had applied at once the re- 
medy most calculated to assuage her grief. The 
effect of this moral reaction was such that the 
disease seemed almost overcome, and the doctor 
himself began to speak confidently of his patient’s 
recovery. Lanrey’s coming was quite an era in 
the history of the family. Catherine rejoiced in 
the thought that her dear mother would soon be 
back at Vallombreux, and that her last days 
would be spent in the peace and comfort of a 
happy home. This improvement lasted a few 
days ; but the vital energies were incurably at- 
tacked, and as the excitement died away, the 
patient grew worse. God had doubtless permit- 
ted this respite in order that the poor woman 
might taste some human consolation before He 
took her to the land where sorrow abideth not, 
and where comfort is tendered for the woes of 
earth. 

The disease suddenly took a turn for the 
worse, and Jane was soon nigh unto death. 
The priest came to see her, and she received the 
last sacraments with great devotion. When this 


178 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


touching ceremony was over, she called Cathe- 
rine to her bedside and said, 

My own dear daughter, think of me when 
I am gone and you are happy.’' 

Mother dear,” said the girl, weeping as she 
spoke, can you think that I should ever forget 
you !” 

I know you will never forget me,” said 
Jane; ‘‘but I want to ask something at your 
hands besides a loving prayer.” 

“ Speak, mother, and be sure that your wishes 
shall be faithfully attended to.” 

“ My only wish is this, that I may be laid to 
rest in our own churchyard at Vallombreux. 
Promise me that when you are prosperous and 
happy, you will have my body removed to our 
own home. There, at least, I shall be sure of a 
prayer from each one who shall look upon the 
grassy mound above my remains.” 

Father Lanrey, who was present at this scene, 
answered instead of Catherine, 

“ Your wishes,” he said, “ are likewise ours, 
and they shall be fulfilled.” 

The dying woman thanked him by a look and 
a motion of the hand ; her strength for the mo- 
ment was exhausted, and she could say no more. 

“ If you leave us,” resumed Lanrey, “)"Our 
body shall not be laid even temporarily in the 
cemetery of Phe la Chaise. I will take it with me 
to dear old Vallombreux at once.” 

“ How kind ! I thank you, good Father Lan- 
rey,” said Jane with an effort. 

“ Jane,” again said the good man — and his 
voice was broken by sobs — “ your son Alexis, 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


179 


whom I loved as one of my own children, shall 
rest with you under the shadow of his own 
steeple. He suffered enough in his lifetime to 
entitle him not to be parted from you in death.” 

The old man could say no more, his voice 
broke into sobs, and Catherine wept unrestrained- 
ly. Jane was soon in her agony, but it was a 
gentle and sweet one; the peace of her soul 
illumined her features and her smiling glance 
seemed to look forward beyond the veil. Lan- 
rey and Catherine, stifling their grief, §tood or 
knelt by the dying woman, repeating aloud the 
Church's recommendation for the passing soul, 
and after a few hours Jane breathed her last. It 
was a happy release ^ after so many years of a 
fiery martyrdom. The old man drew Catherine 
to his bosom, and said amid his tears. 

Henceforth you are my own daughter, and 
your place is ready by my fireside. You and my 
son will do for me what we now do for your dear 
mother.” 

Lanrey's kindness and considerate attentions 
were fully needed to assuage the orphan's grief. 
Three times within one year had she stood by a 
death-bed, and watched the agony of those she 
loved best on earth, and her endurance was well- 
nigh exhausted. Paris, as a yawning gulf, had 
sucked into its w^hirlpool the lives that sustained 
her own, and she was now left a solitary mourner 
over three graves. 

Old Peter Lanrey did not neglect the neces- 
sary arrangements for the transfer of Alexis's 
body from Phe la Chaise cemetery to that of his 
own village. These and other arrangements 


l80 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

regarding Jane's remains, having been satis- 
factorily made, he told Catherine that he must 
leave her in Paris for a few days. The girl 
looked pale and frightened; but her protector 
went on. 

Nay, child, do not be afraid. I am only 
acting in your best interests ; you will understand 
why, when I shall have explained things." 

The poor girl had lately known such disap- 
pointment and wretchedness that she saw nothing 
in Lanrey’s words save the omen of some further 
misfortune. She had often seen the day dawn, 
that was to have lighted her on her road to Val- 
lombreux, and as often had some obstacle in- 
tervened to prevent her departure. She feared 
another such delay, and cried bitterly. The old 
man resumed. 

Hear me out, dear child, and fear nothing. 
I promise you, you shall soon be at home, and in 
that which I have just proposed I had nothing in 
view but certain precautions due to decency, 
even to prudence. Your marriage can not take 
place for a fortnight, and between this time and 
that, it would not be fitting that you should 
dwell under the same root Avith my son." 

Catherine quite appreciated the thoughtful- 
ness of Lanrey's conduct in this matter, and 
would herself have refused the hospitality of his 
house, had grief left her time to think of herself 
and her own affairs. 

But where shall I stay in the mean while ?" 
she asked. 

‘‘ I have thought of that," said Lanrey. I 
have seen the good sisters who have charge 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


l8l 

of the workhouse in Mountain street : you know 
them, I think 

Yes, I have seen them at church on Sun- 
day/' 

Well, they will give you a room in their 
house, and take care of you with their usual 
kindness." 

Catherine's eyes were more eloquent than her 
tongue, and the old man felt himself rewarded 
for his solicitude regarding the forlorn orphan. 
He went on again in the same strain, 

‘‘ I told you that prudence as well as decency 
were concerned. You see this sad journey I am 
about to take, with the coffins of your mother and 
brother under my care, would be too much for 
you. Your health would nqt stand the additional 
shock, and it is now my duty to watch over your 
welfare, since your mother left you in my care." 

Catherine did as Lanrey had advised. A 
requiem was sung next day over the body of her 
mother, in the church of St. Ambrose, and Lan- 
rey, before leaving with his sad burden for Val- 
lombreux, took the young girl to the good 
sisters, and delivered her temporarily into their 
care. 


XV. 


The Return. 

Catherine had been with the sisters for a 
week. One of the latter used on stated days to 
visit the poor of the parish in their own homes, 
and take them sufficient to relieve their wants 
for the present. Catherine begged of her to let 
her go with her one afternoon, and the nun, 
hoping to divert the girl's mind, made no objec- 
tion. In the course of their walk, they came to 
a miserable room sunk many feet underground, 
and placed at the further end of a filthy court. 
The sanitary commissioners must surely have 
overlooked this place; for it was evident that 
the narrow and foul-smelling cell, with the bare 
earth for a floor, was not good enough even for 
a pig-sty. There was nevertheless a rickety 
table, and a broken-legged chair, and in one 
corner a pallet, on which was stretched a man 
with sunken cheeks, fever-bright eyes, and cada- 
verous skin. The unhappy victim was almost at 
the last gasp, and his skeleton-like limbs were 
witnesses to the violence of his sufferings. Save 
one or two compassionate neighbors, no one had 
hitherto thought of bringing him any relief. In- 
voluntarily the thought of some great crime thus 
secretly expiated, came uppermost in the mind 
of those who saw a human being dying in this 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 1 83 

state of untold wretchedness. But whether the 
disease were a trial or an expiation, certain it 
was that the victim might trul^ have envied the 
convict his dungeon, or the ox its shed ; for either 
was preferable to the filthy tenement into which 
Catherine and the nun now made their way. 

At sight of the young girl, the sick man 
trembled, his features worked painfully, and a 
spasm passed through his feeble body. When 
Catherine drew near, he uttered a cry, and the 
sister kindly asked him. 

What is it, my poor friend ? Have a little 
patience, think of the love of God.” 

Still the sick man continued to fix his eyes on 
Catherine as if spell-bound by her appearance. 
The nun, noticing this, but not understanding 
the cause, said, by way of explanation. 

This young girl is staying with us for a few 
days, and wished to accompany me this after- 
noon.” 

I fancied,” said the sick man in a hollow 
voice, that I knew her face ; I think I have seen 
her before.” 

It was Catherine's turn to tremble, when she 
heard that voice, altered as it was by pain and 
suffering. She too thought she recognized it, 
and searching her memory, she said at last. 

Is it Zebedee Jacotot ?” 

Catherine Didier !” cried the dying man 
feebly, as if the girl's voice had brought her face 
back to his recollection. '' I was not mistaken, I 
thought I knew you.” 

The sister remained an attentive and amazed 
spectator of this strange scene. Catherine 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


184 

turned and hurriedly whispered a few words of 
explanation. 

You come to me like an angel from heaven/ 
said Jacotot; '' your visit will comfort me on my 
death-bed ; I have a boon to ask of you.'' 

Speak," said the girl, ‘‘what is it? I am 
quite ready to do any thing I can for you." 

“ Generous girl !" faltered Jacotot, “ I knew 
you would say so. I crave your forgiveness," he 
added, clasping his skeleton hands, “ for all the 
sorrow I caused you ; and I hope that your family 
will not refuse a wretch like me the forgiveness 
of which I know myself to be most unworthy." 

“ Alas !" sighed Catherine, “ those whom you 
speak of can not hear you now." 

“ Have they left Paris?" asked the sick man, 
who, after Didier's death, had lost all communi- 
cation with the unhappy family which he had 
ruined. 

“ They are no longer on earth," said the girl ; 
“ but I may say that my mother and brother, as 
well as my father, all forgave you on their death- 
beds, even as our Lord commanded us to forgive 
each other." 

“ Thank God !" murmured Jacotot, “ I shall 
die in peace now. You yourself will not be less 
generous in forgiving a sinner who sincerely re- 
pents l\is evil-doing." 

“ Yes, I forgive you," faintly whispered 
Catherine, supporting herself against the wall. 
The sight of this man had awakened the sorrow 
within her, and called up the terrible image of a 
past she would fain have buried in oblivion. 

The nun, perceiving her agitation, adminis- 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 1 85 

tered some slight relief to the sick man, and 
hurried her charge away. 

Zebedee Jacotot had been ill for a fortnight, 
and had suffered terrible destitution, over and 
above his disease itself. He was dying a victim 
to his own sins and excesses. The sister, whom 
Christian charity had led to his bedside, nursed 
him with a devotedness which touched even his 
heart. In spite of the atheism which he- had 
publicly professed, he listened humbly to the 
exhortations of his nurse, and felt his faith 
warm again into life. The nun gave him all 
the instruction she could, spoke to him of the 
Christian’s immortal hope, and of the efficacy of 
the mediation of Christ our Saviour. Jacotot 
believed and hoped in these words, and the very 
morning of the day on which Catherine visited 
him, he had received the last sacraments at the 
hands of one of the clergy of St. Ambrose’s. In 
presence of his God, thus brought to him as the 
guide and staff of his long journey into eternity, 
he acknowledged his sin and offered up his death 
as an expiation for them. 

The next day he was no more ; no one fol- 
lowed his remains to the grave, no friend stood 
by him in his last agony ; and if he did not die 
entirely deserted by all, he owed this to that 
religion which he had blasphemed all his life. 

As soon as Father Lanrey had fulfilled his sad 
duties, he had his son’s bans published at Val- 
lombreux as well as in Catherine’s parish church, 
in Paris. Nothing therefore could interfere with 
her speedy return to her native place, and the 
good old man went up, as he had promised, to 


1 86 THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 

fetch her home the day before the wedding. 
Catherine had impatiently awaited him, and 
received him with great eagerness. She told 
him of Jacotot’s death, and they both wondered 
at the mercy of God which so closely follows 
His justice. Then the old man told her a few 
facts which went to show how God sometimes 
baffles all the plans of wicked men. 

^"'Gussy,'' said he, has returned to Vallom- 
breux.” 

Has he left Paris for good ?’' 

Yes, a week ago ; he came soon after I got 
home.’' 

Why did he leave the city which he seemed 
to prefer to any other place ?” 

His father and mother died recently, and he 
went home to take possession of the property 
they left.” 

But he was not the only one, was he ?” 

No ; you know he has a sister ; her real name 
is Mary, but her parents gave her the ridiculous 
nickname of Filly.” 

Gussy will be richer than his sister, for he 
will have his savings to add to his share of his 
father’s land.” 

‘‘ That is just it,” said Lanrey with a smile, 
“ he will add nothing to it.” 

How is that ; what do you mean ?” 

'' Well, this is how it happened. Gussy had 
saved eight thousand francs while in Paris. When 
he heard of his parents’ death, he put his money into 
bank-notes and came home. He kept the money 
in his pocket ; for he is a suspicious fellow, and 
fonder of his gold than of his life. The very day 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


187 


after his arrival, he had a quarrel with his sister, 
who is a regular virago, pretty nearly as strong 
and quite as wicked as Gussy himself. The 
quarrel grew warm, and the two came to blows. 
Filly, in a fit of rage, seized her brother by the 
throat, tore his blouse open, and accidentally 
found the secret pocket where lay the bank-notes 
tied up in a bundle. She shook her brother so 
roughly that this bundle fell out on the floor. 
Filly, not knowing its value, pounced upon it, and 
out of pure spite to Gussy, threw the notes into 
the fire. Her brother, yelling like a wild beast, 
rushed forward to save his treasure, but he only 
burnt his hands for his pains, as the fire had 
quickly scorched up his notes. He turned in his 
fury to attack Filly ; but she snatched up a long 
knife and cried out ‘ Murder ! ' which determined 
attitude silenced him. He is so wild with rage 
that he will not speak to any one. As to Filly, 
he won’t live in the same house with her. So,” 
added Lanrey, ‘‘ there is an end to Gussy ’s 
five years’ saving and greed. God has turned his 
own weapons against him.” 

Catherine could not help smiling at this reci- 
tal, which the old man garnished with a comic 
vein, quite irresistible to his hearer. Early the 
next day, she took leave of the good sisters who 
had given her hospitality, and set off with Lanrey 
for the train. She left Paris without one pang 
of regret : she had come there with those she 
loved best on earth, and she was now leaving 
the great capital without them, in mourning for 
their untimely fate. 

A few hours sufficed to bring the travelers to 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


1 88 

Bri^res, the nearest station to Vallombreux, 
where Lanrey’s gig awaited them. Catherine's 
betrothed, Joseph Lanrey, was there to meet 
them. 

The lover's heart was sore at the sight of poor 
Catherine's faded cheeks and tear-swollen eyes. 
She was dressed in deep mourning. He took her 
hand and clasped it in silence, while two large 
tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. 

Joseph Lanrey was in the full bloom of his 
manhood. His handsome features, bronzed by 
sun and toil, wore a manly expression of strength 
and sweetness, and his lithe and active limbs at- 
tested an uncommon degree of physical strength. 
His figure was fine though not very tall, and had 
a certain rustic elegance which sits not ill on the 
agricultural youth of the country, and his great 
black eyes were, so to speak, wells of earnest 
thought and steadfast resolve. He had never 
faltered one moment in the onward path of duty, 
never given way to the foolish temptations to 
which too many young men fall victims. Many 
a well-dowered farmer's daughter had tried to 
attract his attention ; but he had only one love to 
give, and he had given it unreservedly to Cath- 
erine. It might be said that he had fairly earned 
the bride whom God had reserved for him and 
plucked from so many trials, that she might bless 
his home. 

Old Lanrey was Justly proud of his son, and 
looked upon him as the flower of the flock. 
Joseph distanced all his older brothers in good 
looks, in physical strength, and in mental quali- 
ties, and yet was the beloved and the favorite of 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 1 89 

each. All doted on him because he always 
showed himself sincerely devoted to each. 

Catherine was touched at the young man’s 
emotion. She guessed the cause, and felt grate- 
ful for his sympathy. The two lovers did not 
speak much ; for Catherine was too full of recent 
impressions of sorrow and death to be able to re- 
joice at any thing, and Joseph, with admirable 
tact, well knew that it would take time and the 
assiduous love of her new family, to heal the 
wounds that her poor heart had received. He 
respected her grief, and was silent, though never 
losing an opportunity of offering unobtrusive 
though not unvalued attentions. 

Catherine alighted at Lanrey’s door, where 
a room had been prepared for her, and where 
Georgie, her future sister-in-law, had come that 
very morning, on purpose to welcome her and 
keep her company. She had been a school friend 
of Didier’s daughter, and was unfeignedly glad 
to see the poor orphan again. ‘^We used to be 
companions,” she said to her ; to-morrow we 
shall be sisters.” 

It was October, and the evening was growing 
dark ; still Catherine insisted, before she would 
take any rest, upon going to the churchyard, to 
pray at her mother’s grave. Lanrey wished her 
to wait till to-morrow ; but on second thought, 
he felt that it was best, after all, that the poor 
girl should not delay in facing the sad recollec- 
tions that must assail her at every step she took 
in her old country home. Thus the next day, 
which was set apart for the wedding, was to her 
a less painful one, and the first burst of her grief 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE, 


190 

would have left her calm and resigned. The 
good old man and Georgie were the only com- 
panions Catherine accepted on this sad occasion. 
They went silently through the village, and 
reached the churchyard ; Lanrey showed Cath- 
erine the spot where he had laid her mother 
and brother, just outside the wall of the Lady- 
chapel, whose altar the girl had so often adorned 
with wild-flowers. She knelt down on the grass 
which surrounded the two graves like a green 
wreath, and leaning on the marble crosses at 
the head of each, she prayed and sobbed a long 
time. When she rose, she clasped Lanrey 's hand 
and earnestly thanked him for the care he had 
taken of these beloved remains, laid so peace- 
fully to rest beneath the shadow of the church 
steeple. 

I could have done no less for my best 
friends,'' said the old man in a tearful voice. 

The little group took the homeward path, the 
moon was just rising, and shed her light through 
the straggling streets of Vallombreux, as if to 
welcome the young bride to her old home. 
Lanrey led Catherine past her father's house, 
where all the shutters and doors were closed. 
The orphan said nothing, but looked long and 
lovingly at that place so full of associations to 
her. As soon as they had got beyond it, Lanrey 
gently told her that the house and all belonging 
to it were settled upon her, as her own personal 
property, and that the deed was drawn up and 
awaited signature on the morrow. Catherine 
was speechless at this new proof of affection. She 
thought she had fathomed his generous heart ; 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


I9I 

but of this Cinowning proof of high and noble 
feeling, she had never dreamt. All she could do 
to testify her gratitude was to sob out these few 
words, 

You make me find father, mother, and 
brother in you alone ; for what more could any 
or all have done for me ?’' 

The old man smiled and said. 

It is my wedding gift to you, my child.’' 

There was an unwonted stir in the village the 
next morning. Not that Lanrey had asked many 
guests to the wedding ; on the contrary, he had 
made it known that, considering the circumstan- 
ces of Catherine’s deep mourning and her late ir- 
reparable bereavement, the marriage would be 
quite private. Still the people of Vallombreux, 
sympathizing with the orphan’s undeserved trials, 
and admiring her constancy and filial devotedness, 
wished to show her how gladly they welcomed 
her home, and by their presence in church, to 
testify how they applauded her marriage with 
one of the popular Lanrey family. It was a fine 
October day ; the sun rose in a cloudless sky, 
and nature had scarcely yet doffed her robe of 
green. 

One house alone took no part in the general 
though subdued rejoicing. It was Grenouil- 
lard’s, where Gussy now lived alone. The boor 
knew how little he was liked in the village, and 
so judged it best to stay at home. His conduct 
toward the Didiers was well-known, and as 
generally execrated, and he knew better than to 
risk the scoffs which his appearance in public 
would have excited against him. Besides, he 


192 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


was gradually becoming a misanthrope, since the 
untoward loss of his bank-notes. His heart was 
no longer indifferent to all things as in the days 
when he stolidly said, What do I care He 
cared about many things now, and above all he 
hated his sister Filly with all the cunning 
strength of his uncivilized nature. Still, not- 
withstanding his unconcern with regard to the 
opinion of others on the proprieties of society, 
and still more despite his exclusive love of gold, 
he felt, in his own way, something of the 
sting of public scorn. What he would not 
do was to repent of the deeds by which this 
scorn had been incurred. The whole Lanrey 
family went to church at the appointed time, and 
found the building quite full. It was five years 
since Catherine had seen the shrine she had so 
often helped to deck, and she felt her heart 
strangely moved as she entered it now. The 
good old parish priest who had baptized her and 
had always loved her as his daughter, was await- 
ing her, silently praying for her future happiness. 
Joseph had prepared himself for his marriage 
like a true Christian, and had received holy com- 
munion the day before ; his bride had done the 
same before leaving Paris ; so that the happy 
couple had every reason to hope for God’s bless- 
ing on their union. They knelt on two kneel- 
ing-chairs in front of the railing, and the good 
pastor, preceded by the cross, advanced toward 
them. Catherine wore a white dress and 
wreath. Both she and Joseph seemed absorbed 
in prayer. They stood up at the priest’s ap- 
proach, and listened reverently to his touching 


THE VILLAGE STEEPLE. 


193 


discourse, which he ended amid the sobs of the 
whole congregation. During the day, Catherine 
took quiet possession of her father’s house, 
which she had so long mourned as lost to her 
forever. Lanrey had had it refurnished and put 
in order, leaving, however, all the things which 
he knew association would make dear to its new 
mistress. 

No one was asked to the wedding-breakfast 
but Joseph’s brothers, their wives and children, 
and Georgie’s husband. Early in the evening 
the party separated, conscious that their new 
sister was in sad need of repose after the 
fatiguing events of the last few days. 

The young wife’s grief gave way at last 
before the tender and solicitous love of her hus- 
band and her new family, and her heart began to 
be at peace after the fiery trials that had seasoned 
her early life. 

The blessing of God fell upon this marriage, 
so holily begun. Joseph Lanrey now sits 
among his many children, and rejoices in them, 
saying that they will all be good and true, like 
Catherine. 

Gussy still lives alone like a bear in his den. 

Filly is married in a neighboring village, 
where it is to be hoped ' her husband has cor- 
rected her pugilistic tendencies. 

Father Lanrey rejoices in his Benjamin, who 
is the prop of his old age, and hopes to die in 
his arms with Catherine watching by his bed- 
side. 


Finis. 


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